


I Do Renounce Them

by barefootonabbeyroad



Category: The Godfather (1972 1974 1990), The Godfather - Mario Puzo
Genre: Essentially a rewrite of The Godfather (1972) with a major plot twist, Other, Particularly upsetting chapters will be prefaced with warnings, Rape/Non-con Elements, please read the author notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2020-11-08 09:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20833064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barefootonabbeyroad/pseuds/barefootonabbeyroad
Summary: Sofia Francesca is the youngest member of the Corleone family. She is smart, she is driven, she is capable, and she is loved.Until Tony Buratti.Through bloodshed, sex, lies, tears, and blasphemy... can the Corleones forgive one another their sins?"Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice: And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you."-Ephesians 4:31-32





	1. Mary Magdalene, Blessed Defender of Christ.

**Author's Note:**

> •Some dates and canonical elements established in the _Godfather_ series (both Mario Puzo's novels and Francis Ford Coppola's films) have been changed in order to better suit the timeline and plot of _I Do Renounce Them_.  
•All of the major characters in this story except for Sofia Corleone were created and curated by Mario Puzo, Francis Ford Coppola, and the actors who portrayed them. The way I write them in this story is intended to closely resemble their personality traits and thought processes in the series, but because of very critical changed circumstances in this alternate universe, some of their world views and actions will differ from what I see as being their canonical world views and actions.  
•This story is for entertainment purposes only, and it is intended to be a rewritten version of what occurs in the _Godfather_ universe, or rather, what would happen in the _Godfather_ universe if Vito Corleone's youngest daughter were a woman like Sofia Corleone. Sofia Corleone is intended to be the same age as Connie Corleone is in the film/book, though they are two completely different people.

"Saint Mary Magdalene,  
you came with springing tears  
to the spring of mercy, Christ;  
from him your burning thirst was abundantly refreshed;  
through him your sins were forgiven;  
by him your bitter sorrow was consoled[...]  
Most blessed lady,  
I who am the most evil and sinful of men  
do not recall your sins as a reproach[...]  
This is my longing, so that I shall not perish.  
I say this of myself,  
miserably cast down into the depths of vice,  
bowed down with the weight of crimes,  
thrust down by my own hand into a dark prison of sins,  
wrapped round with the shadows of darkness."

-Saint Anselm’s prayer to Mary Magdalene, 1109 AD.


	2. Women and children can be careless. But not men.

**November 1945**

"I don't think you should bring her back, Mikey," Sonny grunted, twirling his cigarette between his fingers. "Papa's only gonna be upset when he sees her, he don't need nothin' else to worry about."

Michael sat up straighter in his seat and crossed his legs, his own cigarette dangling confidently between his fingers. He stared at the smoke pouring out of the end of the fag as he considered his options. "Sonny, Pop asked to see her. He could be dying. And we all love her and she deserves to say goodbye to her father. And Papa deserves to say goodbye to his daughter."

The eldest Corleone son sighed deeply, slouching forward as he ashed his eighth cigarette of the night. He considered Michael's words carefully through pursed, conflicted lips, lighting up another cig to fill the silence in the room. "Mike, I don't think I can handle her. She... she don't like me much, you know she don't. You gotta be the one to talk to her, hunt her down. Do you even know where she's staying?"

Michael felt his chest deflate in relief. He shook his head, Marlboro Red smoke spouting out of his nose. "No. No, I don't. But I'm sure she won't be too hard to track down. She's still in the Bronx last I heard. Tony's still got his auto shop down there, we can send one of the boys to track her down and bring her home."

"No, no, Mike, that's a bad idea. She's afraid 'a our guys. She ain't gonna take kindly to Clemenza or Sally showing up at her door when Papa's men were the one who pushed her out in the first place," Sonny rationalized. "You gotta go down there. You gotta tell her her father got hit. It can't be me or Fredo or Mama or anybody else. You're the only one of us she don't hate."

Michael closed his eyes for half a second in contemplation of his reasoning. Sonny was right. His sister couldn't stand the Corleone family, and the only time he'd ever seen her cry since she was a little girl was the day he said goodbye to her. And it had been damned difficult not to cry right along with her. She wasn't just his sister, she was his friend. They were only two years apart, but he felt like her father in that moment. Papa had disowned her and it was up to Michael, at least for a moment or two, to be her protector.

"Okay, Sonny. I'll go. Tom and I will. I'll call information and see if they can give me a listing. You go to Mama." And he turned to Tom, ashed his cigarette, and nodded towards the door. And they were off.

_______________________________________________________

_"Libero!... inerte, sì, forse, quand'io_

_le mani al petto sciogliere volessi:_

_ma non volevo. Udivasi un fruscio_

_sottile, assiduo, quasi di cipressi;_

_quasi d'un fiume che cercasse il mare_

_inesistente, in un immenso piano:_

_io ne seguiva il vano sussurrare,_

_sempre lo stesso, sempre più lontano.”_

-_Ultimo sogno_ di Giovanni Pascoli

_“Free! Helpless, yes, to move the hands_

_clasped on my chest—but I had no_

_desire to move. The rustling sounds_

_(like cypress trees, like streams that flow_

_across vast prairies seeking seas_

_that don't exist) were thin, insistent:_

_I followed after those vain sighs,_

_ever the same, ever more distant.”_

-_Last Dream_ by Giovanni Pascoli

____________________________________

**November 1945**

Tom sat opposite Michael in the parked car. He stared at the rundown apartment building, weary eyed. The place looked nearly dilapidated, and it brought him great shame to know that his little sister was slumming it in such a shithole. His head was full of second thoughts. How could he go in there like this, in his brand new suit and tweed coat?

"Mikey, it's already real late. We gotta go right now," Tom interrupted his thoughts, and by his tone, Michael could tell he was thinking the same thing he was.

Corleone adjusted his hat and nodded in acknowledgement, pushing open the door and trekking up the cobblestone street; inside the slum house and upstairs to apartment 33.

It was already nearing midnight, and Michael knew time was sensitive. He gave the worn door five swift knocks and prepared for the unexpected.

His stomach was churning as he heard footsteps approaching the knob. Beside him, Tom was fidgeting with his lighter. Neither one of them wanted to be here and that much was clear.

The door swung open, and there he was. The only man on earth Michael Corleone was sure he despised. Antonio Buratti, who he'd known as a kid to be Tony from up the street. Tony from up the street who treated his sister like a piece of garbage.

He stood there in a pair of ragged suspenders, a smirk on his face when he realized who his company was. "Would you look at that? A Corleone in the flesh!"

He swallowed the hatred in his throat and did his best to stay civil. "Tony, I'm here to see Sofia. It's urgent family business."

Tony pulled a tiny wooden toothpick from out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, eyeing Michael with the most obnoxious smirk he'd ever seen. "Well, you're a good four months late. She's gone."

He narrowed his eyes, first in confusion and then in concern. "Gone? What the hell do you mean she's gone?" And the cool in his voice seemed to have evaporated completely, he realized.

"Tony, who the fuck's over here at this hour?" A nasal woman's voice piped up from behind Buratti. A nasal woman's voice which definitely did not belong to his sister.

A slender, olive skinned broad draped in a cheap green dressing robe strung her arms around Buratti's torso and rested her head on his shoulder with a sly smile.

"Babe, this is Michael Corleone and, uh, Tom... Tom Hagen, Sofia's brother and his friend. They've come lookin' for 'er," he explained, gaze shooting back to Michael. "You come to see the baby, Mikey? You _terrones_ always show up at the damndest times, but y'know, I've always been a night owl. _Essere mio ospite!_" He taunted.

_The good-for-nothing, freeloading, idiotic, Lombardi son of a fucking bitch._

"Where the hell is she, Tony?" He spat back, fists already clenching.

He spit the toothpick on the ground and shrugged smugly, shrugging the girl's arms off his shoulders. "Why don't ya check the nearest whorehouse? That's the last place I heard she was. They don't hire many guinea women around here to do much else other than spread their legs."

Michael's chest burned with fury. For a short-lived moment he thought he was joking, but by the look in his eyes, he realized that he was being serious.

Tom shifted his weight in distress, and Michael tried not to show the bastard the pain in his eyes. "Where is she, Tony? Tell me where my sister is, or I promise you that you'll regret it."

He was lucky it wasn't Sonny he was dealing with.

Tony let out a light bout of laughter, and his eyes smiled. He loved seeing him squirm. After this was over he was going to kill him. It was him that had caused her to leave his family in the dust, and it was him that had sent her into prostitution for god's sake.

How was he going to help her? How would he keep Papa from finding out?

"She's two blocks down at the dump at the corner of 179th and Anthony, I'm pretty sure it's..."

"25," The woman interjected.

"25, that's right," Tony said with the snap of his fingers. "Good seeing you, Mikey, but I got business to take care of that don't concern your tramp sister or no mafiosos." And with that, he stepped out of the way and slammed the door in the duo's faces.

Michael turned to Tom with a stony face, biting back tears with everything he had. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette and shoved one between his teeth, lighting it semi desperately. '

"Let's go."

____________________________________

**February 1934**

For weeks, Michael had begged his father for the new Buck Rogers ray gun. It looked straight out of the science fiction comics; sleek and shiny and complete with a trigger that really pulled. And Vito had finally relented and ordered one from the Sears Roebuck catalogue a little over a month before his birthday. The twelve year old was ecstatic. He'd run around the house with his cousins and the neighborhood boys everyday and play Cowboys and Indians with the knowledge that he had the newest and greatest toy gun there was.

And where was it? He'd checked everywhere for it this morning. He was supposed to go over to Frankie Bianchi's house, and he had on his coat and boots already. He'd checked his toy chest, and under his bed, and inside his bookcase, and he'd asked his mother and both his brothers and no one had seen it. Now he was starting to worry. Could one of his brothers have taken it? Could a friend have knicked it? He wouldn't be surprised if Fonnie Marchesi had taken it; he'd stolen two of his toy soldiers before.

Michael searched through his pile of dirty laundry, two seconds away from yelling aloud in frustration. Here he was crouched on the ground looking for his toy that his dad had gotten just for him.

"Michael?" A meek voice called out behind him.

He turned around, still on his hands and knees, and narrowed his eyes at the sight of his little sister. "Whaddu you want, Sofia?" He scowled cruelly.

She bit her lip, tugging at the seam of her pink dress nervously. "I... I know you're looking for your ray gun and I--"

"Did you take it?" He demanded, standing upright immediately and pouncing towards her. "Where is it? Did you break it?" Michael was frantic at this point, though his voice was full of venom.

The ten year old drew back, eyeing him reluctantly and staring at the ground beneath the two of them. "No, no, I didn't break it, Mikey, I... I lost it. I'm so sorry, I looked everywhere for it, I played with it yesterday and now I can't find it and I know you much you love it--"

_"You lost my ray gun?"_ He bellowed, fire in his eyes. "Why'd you take it?! Did you come into my room when I wasn't here? I can't believe you'd--"

She looked up at him, tears pouring out of her big brown eyes, and he was alarmed. Fia cried less than he did. She was tough as could be, annoying as all hell, but she was like no other girl he'd ever met and she never, ever cried. Not since she was a baby, anyway. "I... I know, Michael, I'm so sorry, I took it because it looked so neat and I wanted to play like I was shooting a real gun, and I took it out in the yard and I must've left it in the snow. I can't find it anywhere, I... I can get you a new one, Michael, with my allowance money, or I could tell Papa what I did and he can--"

"Fia..." He began slowly, edging away from her. He couldn't stand to see her crying, he realized, and he'd do anything to make it stop. "It's okay. We can go look for it together. I'm sure it's only buried in the snow. And I can show you how to shoot it the right way, like a real gun if you want me too..." He offered her a smile of reassurance, and to his relief, she almost immediately stopped crying and wiped at her strained eyes. He offered her a silent smile, which she mirrored. 

"Okay, Michael. I can put on my boots. I'm real sorry I took it again."

____________________________________

**November 1945**

There was no lighting in the hallway of the dingy, musty building that Tony had directed Tom and Michael to. It was freezing cold in spite of the fact that Michael wore multiple layers of clothing, and as the winter air set into him he wondered why in the fuck she hadn't told him.

They practically ran up a set of creaky stairs, and Michael threw his half smoked cigarette on the ground just before they reached number 25. He followed the distinct sound of a baby wailing and shoved his hands in his pockets as Tom rapped on the door.

A minute or two passed before footsteps approached, accompanied by the crying baby and the sound of shushing. The knob turned and was pushed forward ever so slightly. A pair of hesitant eyes peeked out at him and widened in shock, and very briskly, its owner pushed it open all the way. The rusted hinges creaked hauntingly. And there she was. His kid sister holding the most beautiful baby he'd ever seen.

"Michael..." she breathed, the fear in her voice adjoined by the sound of a knife falling to the ground. The realization that she'd been brandishing a knife just to answer the door, even if it was the middle of the night, sent a shiver down his spine.

She wore an old nightgown he'd seen her in a million times before, and her sleek black hair was tied into a neat, low-hanging ponytail. She was incredibly thin and frail, but the thing that struck him the most was her eyes. Before Sofia had bright brown eyes that nonnas and nonnos always complimented. They were full of life in a clearcut, tangible way. And now they were full of sadness. Irrepressible sadness. Those eyes knew pain, and a lot of it.

"Fia," he responded, staring at the child in her arms. He was probably just shy of a year old. And though his mother was thin as a pole and looked miserable, he was plump and wide-eyed. "He's gorgeous. What's his name?"

She paused, stepping aside to allow the two of them inside. "Michael. Michael Vito Corleone."

And Michael felt his breath leave him.

He stepped into the tiny apartment, gloomy and dark and old as all hell. And cold. Bone-chillingly cold. There was a small kitchenette to the left, neatly kept and orderly in spite of its rickety appearance, a wooden crib and a twin-sized bed to the right, and miscellaneous furniture squared neatly in every corner. And that was it. This is where she lived. She and her infant, who she'd named after him and her father, the two men that had failed her the most.

"It's n-nice to see you, Tom," she stammered, nodding to Hagen with a forced smile.

"You too, Sof. It's definitely a lot quieter at the house with you gone," he responded.

She gestured towards the splintering kitchen table in the center of the room and they obliged. Michael plopped into his seat without his usual statue-like demeanor. There was no need to put up that front for his sister, especially considering the circumstances.

She sat down across from him, bouncing the baby on her lap. He began toying with her hair and she cooed at him, It was a sobering sight. Sofia had always told Papa that she wanted to be an actress. A film star in Hollywood, and she'd begged him to let her go to California and let her live out her dream once she'd turned eighteen. He'd refused, and Michael knew that he now regretted that with every fiber of his being.

And now here she was, a beautiful, smart, kind woman who'd been turned a hooker. A hooker on her own in a ramshack apartment with a baby, a deadbeat husband, and no money to spare.

"So what in the hell are you two doin' here in the middle of the goddamned night?" She interrupted his thoughts. She tried to pass off the wording as teasing, but he knew she was just as afraid of his answer as she should've been.

Michael crossed his legs and stared at her gently, leaning forward to deliver his original message. "Sofia... Papa got hit. Bad. He's in the hospital now, and they think he's gonna pull through, but he's in bad shape and he wants to see his daughter."

She swallowed the lump in her throat as the baby babbled, and she brushed back his curls with the palm of her hand. "Alright," she responded breathily, eyes on the table. "I... I can see Papa, but Mikey, I... He can't... You can't tell him that I--"

"I know. I know it, and I won't. But we don't need to talk about him right now." Michael peered at Tom, and for a moment, he wondered if he should ask him to leave the room. But Tom was just as much a brother to her as he was, and although Michael knew he felt much closer to her than to her than did Tom, Tom adored her. Always had.

He sniffled a bit, placing his hands flat on the table and trying to figure out how in the hell to begin. And then he realized that he should let her determine that. "Sofia, what happened? What happened with him? How did you... how did you end up...?"

She nestled her nose into her son's hair, shame pervading her eyes. Deep, deep shame that broke his heart. He could never be ashamed of his sister. Disappointed in her, yes, but never ashamed. Papa could be, but Michael decided then and there that he needed to make it clear to her that he was not ashamed of her.

"He kicked me out... f-four months back now," she began, rocking her body in order to soothe both the child and herself. "He kicked me out and said it was because he knew I was seeing someone else, the neighbor... the fucking neighbor, can you believe he'd be enough of a dipshit to insinuate that I was dumb enough to be fucking the next door neighbor?" She let out a winded chortle, though he could hear right through it.

She still cussed like a sailor. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

"Anyway, I... I know it was because he was seeing that floozy from the beauty parlor, Gia Cafaro. She was always asking me about him whenever I'd see her around, and I know they were going at it behind my back for months, I just know it, he and his fucking WOP cock aren't that goddamned smart, and that's why he dumped me, it's because I was smarter than him and he knew it..." She stared off into the distance, biting back imminent tears and gritting her teeth to bear through it.

"He kicked me out, and I tried to find a job, I did, but Gia fucking Cafaro and her stupid fucking dago friends have all got big fucking mouths, and she told everybody who'd hire a WOP woman that I screwed the neighbor right under her poor fella's nose for months and I'd probably do the same to their husbands, and, um..." He saw a single tear trickle down her cheek and immediately felt helpless. He always did. Ever since he was a little kid and she'd lost his Buck Rogers ray gun, Michael Corleone could not stand to see his kid sister cry.

"I tried everything, Michael, I swear to you I did, I swear it," she implored, swallowing over and over again out of anger and spite and despair and desperation and pain. "I tried everything from dry cleaners to beauty parlors to restaurants to drug stores, but Guineas t-talk, they run their fucking mouths about everybody else's business, and no one would hire me because of her, and no one would take me in because they were afraid of Papa, and I had him to take care of, Mikey..." She gestured to the unassuming child in her lap, her voice finally breaking. Tears streamed down her face and her voice was now punctuated by broken down sobs he knew she tried to hold back far too often.

"If it... if it weren't for him I'd be d-dead and I'd be glad to be dead, but I had to take care of my baby b-because nobody else would take him, and... Michael... Michael, I know you can't bring me back home but... but would you take my baby? Would you do that for me? I c-can't raise him like this forever, I can't, and Mama and Papa could bring him up, Papa wouldn't hate a baby, he c-couldn't... and he'd bring him up r-respectably, and he'd have a good Italian family, and h-he'd be safe and he'd go to a good school and he'd h-have everything he needed... I need that for him, Michael, I do, I don't have anything left b-besides him but I can't... I can't raise him the son of a fucking whore, I can't do that to him, I can't live like this anymore, Michael, fucking... Gia Cafaro won't r-ruin my son's life, that _evil f-fucking cunt can't take Michael, too..._" And with that, she broke down.

She buried her face in his hair and broke down crying. Harder than he'd ever heard her cry in her life. Harder than he'd ever heard anyone cry, now that he thought about it. Her sobs were all that filled the air, and all he could do was curse himself and Tony and his entire family, and try not to break down right with her. Men didn't cry. Women and children did. And since reaching adulthood, and going off to school, he'd only cried twice. Once when his Nonna had died and once when Sofia had left his family. And now he was realizing that he hadn't cried hard enough.

Less than a moment later, he decided he couldn't take it any longer. He pushed his chair out from under him and sprang to his feet, almost unanimously with Tom. He gingerly took the child into his arms and handed him off to Tom, who obliged and turned away from the both of them, and he took her by the hands and propped her up. She threw her arms around him and barricaded herself into his shoulder, and he let her.

"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, Michael, I c-can't believe I—"

"You're my sister, Sofia, you don't need to apologize to me. You... you only made one mistake, Fia, one mistake that changed your life, and I'm sorry he—"

"—Mi-Michael, I didn't... I didn't... I didn't throw myself at that fucking piece of shit Lombardi, I d-didn't, I swear to you I'd never do that to Papa, I... went to his house once after a date and his parents weren't home and w-we kissed on his couch and... and he... g-got on top of me and I t-told him, I told him to stop, I t-told him to stop and that's how I g-got knocked up, a-and I... I d-didn't know how to tell Papa, I c-couldn't risk losing them both, I c-couldn't risk it, Michael, I couldn't, pl-please believe me, please believe me, god, please believe me..."

He could feel his pulse increasing with every passing second. He was gonna kill him. He'd kill him if Sonny or Papa didn't do it first. Clemenza's next bullet would be used on Tony Buratti after the pummeling of a fucking lifetime, and he swore it as he shushed her as best he could and kissed the top of her head. He'd never done that before, he realized, and now he was regretting that too. "Sofia... Fia, I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch, I promise you I will, you're gonna be fine, and I'm gonna get you out of this, and Papa will forgive you, sweetheart, he's gonna forgive you because he didn't know that you—and... I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry, you could've told me. You could've told me--"

"No, no, no, no, no," she screeched hysterically, gripping the fabric of his shirt. "You all th-thought I was... a liar... y-you did, Sonny did, S-Sonny told me when I left th-that he w-wished he'd never--"

"Sonny's a bastard. Sonny's a bastard, Fia, and so am I, and so is Fredo, and so is Tom, and so is Papa, and we're gonna fix this for you. You're my sister. You're my sister, and you've been through hell and my nephew's been through hell... Sofia, I'm gonna bring you home. Tonight. I am. We're all gonna go home, and I'm gonna tell Papa what you told me, and he's gonna forgive his only daughter b-because you deserve that... Do you understand me, Sofia?"

She did not respond. She only held onto him tighter.


	3. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

_"Jesus, Lover of chastity, Mary, Mother most pure, and Joseph, chaste guardian of the Virgin, to you I come at this hour, begging you to plead with God for me. I earnestly wish to be pure in thought, word and deed in imitation of your own holy purity._

_Obtain for me, then, a deep sense of modesty which will be reflected in my external conduct. Protect my eyes, the windows of my soul, from anything that might dim the luster of a heart that must mirror only Christlike purity._

_And when the 'Bread of Angels becomes the Bread of me' in my heart at Holy Communion, seal it forever against the suggestions of sinful pleasures._

_Heart of Jesus, Fount of all purity, have mercy on us._

_Amen."_

**-Catholic prayer for strength against sexual temptation.**


	4. Let them suffer, then, as she suffers.

**August 1932**

Sofia's favorite toy was a china doll that Vito had picked out for her while on business in Manhattan. It had long, black curls tied into a pink ribbon and big brown eyes, and donned a silk pink dress with white doilies. It looked just like her, and the thrilled smile on her face when he handed it to her on her sixth birthday made his heart sing. He loved making his children happy more than he loved life itself. And she was his only daughter, and he promised himself the day that she was born that he would raise her to be a kind, diligent, strong Sicilian Catholic woman.

And today, as her father was at work, Sofia played with two of her dolls at his feet underneath the large brown desk. Jane, a blonde one she'd had for a couple of years now; and Maria, who he'd attentively picked out himself at F.A.O. Schwarz. Her most prized possession that she took with her everywhere, that other little girls fawned over, that he'd spanked Santino for hiding from her. She'd run into his study and pretended to cry, and that had been enough for him. Vito would never let anyone take anything from his daughter. She was the light of his life, and she never failed to make him laugh, and hurting her hurt him more than anything in the world.

He rifled through a few papers and outstretched his legs, pressing the balls of his feet into the rug beneath them. And he was startled to hear a muffled though distinct crunch beneath his loafer, and then a very loud gasp.

He maneuvered himself backward and peeked beneath the desk, gawking at the figure of his daughter. Sofia stared at her doll, face up on the floor beneath her, and let out a shaky sigh before bursting into tears. "Papa... Papa, you broke Maria! You broke Maria, she's... her face got cracked! She's ruined... You ruined her..." She bawled aimlessly, setting aside Jane and reaching for the disfigured doll. Her little fingers ran over the shattered porcelain in shock, and Vito immediately pushed back his chair and sunk down to his knees. He reached for his baby and pulled her onto his lap as she cried her eyes out. Cried harder than she'd cried since infancy. He stared at her shaking silhouette forlornly, brushing back her strayed hairs as she tried hopelessly to rearrange the doll's deformed face.

"_Piccola_, I didn't mean to hurt your doll, I'm so sorry... We can get you a new one, today, Sofia... when your Papa finishes his work we'll drive into the city and we'll get you a new doll. And a friend for her, too."

"I l-left her on the floor, Papa, I left her on the floor while I br-brushed Jane's hair, I didn't want her to get broken, Papa, she was my friend..." The six year old sobbed, staring at him with bright red eyes as she mourned her loss.

Vito pulled her into his shoulder, adjusting his weight on the floor and allowing her to cling to him as he got to his feet and bounced her carefully. "You didn't hurt your friend, _piccola_, I did... And I'm so sorry I wasn't more careful around your dolls. We'll get you a new one, princess. Even prettier than Maria. She's broken now, Sofia, but she forgives you."

Hearing Sofia cry was like hearing an angel cry. He felt helpless as her sobs persisted, and he shushed her and kissed at her tears as she tugged at the fabric of his shirt with her free hand.

"Papa, do we have to throw her away?" She managed to choke out after a minute or so. "I don't want her to go to the dump, I want her to be happy with us in the house. Can I still keep her?"

"Of course. Of course, Sofia. Let's have Mama clean up the broken pieces under the desk and take her up to your room, and then you and I will go to the toy store together." His work could wait. His daughter's heart could not.

"Can we get a different kind of doll? I don't want a doll that looks just like Maria, I don't want to hurt her feelings." He'd finally gotten her to stop crying. Now she was only sniffling.

"You can have any doll you want, Sofia. And we'll get her new dresses, too, do you want a new dress for your dollies?"

"I want a blue dress. Like the pretty blue one Mama wore on your nuhversery."

He managed an endeared smile at that, relief flooding him. "You mean anniversary, _piccola?_"

____________________________________

**November 1945**

Michael cleared his throat as he and his sister and Tom made their way down the hallway of the near-empty private hospital, eyes stoic and jaded. What a night. He'd found out his father had been shot, then he'd found out his sister had been a prostitute for the last four months, and now he was taking her to a confessional of sorts; the priest being a bedridden Vito himself. The button men around his father's room, some of whom Michael didn't even recognize, nodded in solidarity towards the two of them. A silent Tessio pushed the door open for them and followed the trio inside, and there he was: Papa, fast asleep in his bed with all sorts of tubes sticking out of him.

He heard Sofia let out a muffled gasp of horror and disbelief— and he didn't blame her at all; it was a rather disturbing sight. For a moment, Michael debated whether or not he should rouse Vito awake, but he had gone to too much trouble not to. And he knew his father would scold him if he found out later that Michael had waited. It was now 2:30 in the morning, but Michael was wide awake and so was his sister.

The elder of the siblings approached Vito's bedside and took his hand in his, giving it a gentle though firm shake. That was the only part of his body that Michael felt comfortable touching. "Pop... Papa, it's Michael. I've got Sofia here with me, Papa," he said somberly. And a moment later, the crime lord's eyes fluttered open, and he gazed up at his son expectantly.

Michael had already explained to Sofia that he couldn't talk. A bullet had pierced his left lung, and until it healed he would not be able to speak properly. She took three steps forward and leaned over the bedside, smiling in a mixture of joy and shame and hesitancy. "Papa, I'm right here..." She began, resting a hand on his knee, which was shielded from view by freshly starched hospital blankets. "You know, you don't look so bad for someone who was shot five times. Maybe they shoulda given you one more right in the shoulder or the throat or something so I could see it and feel even worse for you. That'd be a real mark of valor." She swallowed the lump in her throat that Michael could feel, and Vito smiled. Michael could tell that his father, too, was crying on the inside. And truth be told, he was close to it, too.

Michael had told Sofia to excuse herself to the restroom so that he could tell her story. It would sound more credible coming from him, and she wouldn't be able to push through it all without bursting into sobs, which he knew that no one would want. "Papa, I'll be right back, alright? I've gotta go to the lady's room, but we'll talk more in a minute. Play some tic tac toe or something, and this way you won't be able to accuse me of cheating!" She patted his leg and turned to go, but before she turned all the way around, Vito grabbed her hand and gave it a tight squeeze. And she didn't even hesitate to hide the tears in her eyes. There was a moment of silence and of understanding between the two of them, and then she left him be.

As soon as the door closed behind Sofia, Michael turned to the group of men that surrounded them and nodded solemnly. Tessio, Tom, and father and son. Four men. The only men besides the other Corleone brothers who would know the entirety of the story for as long as Sofia Corleone lived-- aside from Tony himself.

And now it was time to break his father's heart, two days after he'd been shot and nearly killed.

"Papa," Michael began, a lump already forming in his throat. "I found Sofia today with her son. Alone in a dingy apartment with no heating in the Bronx. She greeted me and Tom at the door holding a knife. She hasn't been living with Tony for the past four months because... Because P-Papa, he kicked her out to be with another woman. A friend of Sofia's who turned on her, and Papa... she poisoned the whole community against Fia. She told them lies about her and her virtues. She made it impossible for her to find a job, and for her son, Pop... For her son, your grandchild... " He paused, sitting up a little straighter and averting his gaze from his father's.

"She had to start selling herself. Papa, Sofia has been a prostitute for the past three months in one of the worst neighborhoods in the borough while she's rearing up a baby. And she begged me to take him. His name is Michael Vito, Papa, she named him after us. And he's beautiful, and I'm going to bring him here tomorrow with her permission." And finally, he could look him in the eye again. "Tony Buratti is a monster. He abandoned his son and his wife because he was selfish, spiteful, _diavolo_. He kicked Sofia out and he forced her to degrade herself, and..."

And here it went. The sentence that he knew would make Vito hate, no, despise himself for the rest of his life and beyond. But he had to tell him. Had to tell him for her and for his own peace of mind.

"He forced himself on her and that is how she got pregnant. She did not foresake our family's name, Papa, he did. He did that to her, and she did not tell you that because she was at his house against your wishes, and she was afraid you wouldn't believe her because... of her past, or hold it against her, and she'd lose the both of you, and so she kept quiet and now she's lost all of us." He shifted on his heels with a deep sigh. "And I am telling you this now because you need her back, I know that you do. And Mama needs her back, Sonny and Fredo and Tom do, and I need her back. And her son needs us, and she needs us, and I promised her that I'd help her, and Tom has, too. Papa, will you let her come back to you? Knowing all of this, what do you want to do?"

Vito's face had long since turned to stone. He looked more helpless than Michael had ever seen him look in his life. His eyes were glassy and despondent, and Michael knew that he desperately wanted to say something.

After a long pause Vito held out his hand and pressed his index finger to his thumb, shakily maneuvering his wrist in a gesture that symbolized writing. And Michael nodded, reaching into his coat pocket for his address book and a lead pencil. He flipped the book open to a blank page and balanced it on the bed's railing, handing off the pencil to his father.

Through pursed lips and a sniffle and a great deal of struggle, Vito Corleone scrawled out in big, wobbly letters: MAKE HIM PAY.

And Michael nodded at him and turned towards Tessio with a solemn stare. His heart was racing. Somehow, telling his father had made it seem all the more real. "Sally, I'm putting this one on you. Kill him. In the way that you see fit. Go now."

Vito's old accomplice gave the two of them a nod of understanding, grabbed his hat from the rack by the door, and strode out. When the door clicked behind him, Michael shoved his address book back in his pocket and studied his father's face. What was there to say?

"She'll forgive you, Dad. She loves you. I know what you're thinking right now... and it isn't true... and she loves you and she knows that... you still love her."

But did she?

____________________________________

_"Unni care, u sceccu si suse. Cadrai, ma presto ti alzi."_

-Proverbio Siciliano

_"Whenever the donkey falls, he stands up. You may fall, but soon you will get up again."_

-Sicilian Proverb

____________________________________

**May 1944**

"It's the prom, Papa, everyone in my whole class is going. I've already picked out a dress. And I've got a date, but there's a whole group of girls going too, and I'll be home by curfew." She was behaving as though it were nothing, but she knew that her father was not at all reasonable when it came to matters of dating, and this would not be an easy task.

Her father sat on the sofa in the family room, elbow perched on the armrest and pipe in hand. He stared at her intently, eyes kind though stern. "What's your date's name, Sofia?" Vito finally mumbled, shifting in his seat if only slightly.

From across the room, Sofia could hear Sonny snicker under his breath. God, she couldn't stand him sometimes. "His name is Luke. Luke Trentini."

"Trentini," Vito repeated. The disappointment in his voice was evident. "Do you know where Trento is, _piccola?"_

She could already feel herself growing annoyed. She'd considered lying and saying he was named Calabresi or Pugliesi, but she knew that Vito would eventually find out, and he would never forgive her for lying to him about such a matter.

"Yes, Papa. It's in Northeastern Italy. It borders Lombard to the east, Veneto to the west, and it's directly south of Austria-Hungary. In fact, it was formerly part of the Austrian empire, but Italians annexed it after the Great War. It was captured by the Western Romans in the first century before Christ, and before that, it was inhabited by Celtics. After the Western Roman Empire fell, it was captured by, let's see, what was it... the Ostrogoths, the Byzantines... and I think after that it goes the Lombards and then the Franks, but I guess that doesn't really matter, and finally the Holy Roman Empire took it back... you know Northerners, they can't hold onto their land for shit, and anyway, it changed hands again to everyone from the Romans to Napoleon, and then it went to the Hapsburg Empire, which I'd never even heard of before doing research on Trento, which just goes to show you how small of a hand can take an entire Italian region. Really sad, if you think about it. And over the course of several hundred years in Trento, many women gave birth to many more women and many men who would eventually immigrate here, and on June the 19th, 1923, Lucas James Trentini was born in Queens, New York City, United States of America. And incidentally, he has no memory of oppressing either you or your people, and although he is not a Sicilian, his mother does make very good pasta sauce, and this I know because she brought it to a Italian American event at our parish, and although Martina Trentini may be from Trento, Italy; at the end of the day in the eyes of the world she is still just another dirty WOP, same as you or me, and so is her son, who asked me to prom, which is an American and not Italian tradition, and I think that I--"

"Alright. Alright, _piccola_, you've made your point." She could tell that he was trying to suppress his laughter and retain his usual phlegmatic stature, but he was failing miserably. Sofia never failed to make her father laugh at times he deemed inappropriate. "Sofia, I want you to go to your dance, but I cannot let you go with a Northerner. I won't do it, and I'm sorry, but I will not change my mind about that. If you go with someone else, paisan, then I would be happy to let you go, and I will buy you your dress and your shoes and whatever else you would like, but I will not change my mind about the Northerner."

"_Papa_," she began, her stare unrelenting. "Michael went to his prom with Alice Cancio, and last I checked, her family's from Milan, which is in Lombardy, which is not even close to being in the stupid boot hill, and it was also conquered by the Austria-Hungarian--"

"Sofia, that is different and you know it is. It is not ideal to me that Michael or Santino or Fredo ends up with a girl who isn't Sicilian, but I will not have my daughter be with someone who looks down on her the way that Northerners look down on us, and dishonor Sicilian tradition in raising your children. That is an insult to me and to you, and--"

"First of all, don't start talking about hypothetical children yet, because I haven't even met his father. And secondly, he does not look down on me! He's an _idiot_, Papa, he doesn't even know who Napoleon is! And he doesn't know that you were forced to leave Sicily, and he doesn't know about Garibaldi's march, and he doesn't know that you hate Lombardis or Trentinis or Veronis and whatever else because he's _fucking stupid--_"

"Watch your mouth, young lady."

"Excuse me, Dad, let's just say he's _exponentially unintelligent_, and I don't like him because he's Italian or a smart aleck or a good kisser or whatever the hell else, Papa, I like him because he's good looking and his Dad has a nice car that I'd look good in, and he'll look good in my prom pictures--"

"Have you kissed him, _piccola?_" He wasn't even bothering to hide the smile on his face. This was just how she was, and how she'd always be, and he loved her not in spite of it, but because of it.

"No, I haven't kissed him, Papa, but I have kissed his brothers. All three of them, including the one who just started the fourth grade. His name is Ernest. He has to try that Vaseline trick, I wasn't very impressed." She was smiling right back at him, and he let out a chortle at that as he took a drag off his pipe.

"Sofia, I appreciate your effort, and you know that I do not like disappointing my children, but you can't go to the dance with him. You can go to the dance with that boy, what's his name, De Luca? The Sicilian one. There's that nice boy that came to Sonny's wedding, his family is from--"

"Papa, I don't want to go to the prom with Johnny De Luca. And I don't want to go to the prom with Henry Opizzi. He asked me in our History class once if I'd ever want to have sex standing up, he's a stupid pig and I can't stand him. His family's from Abruzzo but he's a tool, and Luke's family is from Trento but he's a nice guy, Dad, he's sweet as pie and he may be stupid, but he treats me nicely and he's a gentleman and I know that you'll like him, and his sister married a Sicilian boy if that counts for anything. Papa, please. I'm begging you. I don't want to go to the prom with anybody but Luke. I couldn't do that to him, and I don't want to miss my prom... please." Her eyes were turning glassy, and that pained him. "I spent an hour and a half at the library doing research on Trento, and I don't care about Trento at all, but I do care about Luke Trentini, and I'll be home by 9 o'clock, and I'll let Michael or Sonny or whoever chaperone it, and I'll save you a dance before I leave, but please just let me go to my senior prom with the boy I love."

It had been a long time since she'd pleaded this much for something. And though he hated displeasing her more than he hated anything else, he refused to budge. "No. No, I'm sorry, _piccola_. I will not allow my daughter to go steady with someone whose kind has disgraced our people. I won't allow it. You won't go to the prom with him, and you will stop seeing him, and you will not disrespect my wishes or there will be consequences."

She narrowed her eyes in disgust, her eyes shifting to the Oriental rug beneath her feet as she tried to keep her rage at bay. There was a long pause between them, and she could hear Sonny shifting in his seat. Sonny thought this was unfair, and she already knew it.

She cleared her throat and spoke venom to him. "I can't believe you sometimes, Dad," she began, an audible trepidation in her voice. "I just want to go to a dance with a guy from a different part of Italy than us... Michael's dated Irish girls, and so has Fredo, and Sonny's seen women that aren't even Catholic, and Tom's Irish-German... and so what is so wrong about that, Papa?"

She was close to tears and he could tell, but he wasn't about to back down. He had to make her understand. Sofia was a rebel and she always had been, but he was a Roman Catholic Sicilian with strong Roman Catholic Sicilian values, and he would die that way.

Vito took a long drag from his pipe and stared at her patiently though hesitantly. "_Piccola_, there are differences between men and women. You are a strong and resilient and smart, smart girl, but you are not a man and you never will be. You need to realize that your job as a Sicilian woman is to marry someone from our homeland who has our values and our beliefs, and have his children, and be a good wife and a good homemaker. You are a pure and god-honoring woman, _beata è la donna che aspetta suo marito_. And it is my responsibility as your father to make sure that you end up with a man who honors you and our heritage, and a man who is not an Italian from the South cannot do that for you."

Sofia's nostrils flared in fury, and he saw the fire in her eyes, and truth be told, it frightened him. Vito was not sure he had ever seen her so angry. "A pure and god-honoring woman, huh? Is it pure and god-honoring for you to steal things and sell them illegally and let our... _paisan_ gamble and sleep with whores, Papa? Is it pure and god-honoring for you to kill people who cross you and take men from their families, from their wives and children?"

He stared at her in shock. Never, ever had she questioned his work or his ethics before. His face did not show anger, only bewilderment. He was silent for a moment, and through his silence she only became angrier. Her fists clenched up and her entire body tensed, and for half a second, Vito stole a glance at Sonny, who was staring at his sister and biting his lip in nervousness. It was as though he knew she was going to say something she regretted.

"Is that all I am to you, Papa?" His youngest continued, shifting on the carpet and eyeing him with rage. "I'm just gonna be your daughter and then somebody's husband and mother forever or you'll disown me? Is that how this works? I am smart. I'm smarter than you and all of my brothers, and I'm smarter than every boy I've ever kissed, and I'm smarter than all of your men, and I want to do something with my life other than be somebody's wife, I'd rather die alone than die knowing I never did anything but sew and cook and clean for some schmuck guinea, that isn't fair, it isn't fair, Papa, you can't just sit there and tell me that that's all you'll ever let me be."

Vito sat up straighter in his seat, and he considered his choice of words carefully. He knew she was furious with him, and he was not sure that she'd ever been this furious with him, and he wanted so badly to dispel her fury without lying to her. "Sofia... I do not think you're stupid, and I think you're the brightest woman I've ever met, and some day some man is going to be very, very lucky to call you his wife. You are my daughter, and I love you more than anything in this world, and I have raised you up to be the way that you are now, but _mia figlia_, I am a traditional man, and you're young and virginal and naive about some things, and one of them is the differences between men and women. Men are physically strong, they are providers and protecters for their wives and children. Women are mentally strong, and they nurture their husbands and children, they are nurturers and you are a nurturer and y--"

**"I don't wanna nurture jack shit!"** She suddenly screeched, digging her heels into the carpet. "I don't wanna nurture you or Sonny or Henry Opizzi or Luke or Michael or any fucking man as long as I fucking live, I _hate_ men, I hate how they look at me and grope me and whistle at me, and I hate how they expect me to coddle them and chase after them, I hate how they pressure me and how they think they're better than me, I hate how they need women to do everything for them, I hate men and I don't ever, ever, ever want to marry a man I don't love, and Luke Trentini is the only man I've ever been with that I'm sure I love, and he doesn't pressure me or make me feel lesser or talk down to me or expect anything out of me, and I want to go to my stupid fucking prom with him, and you... you're taking that away from me, the only thing I want, the only thing I want, Papa, I want to go to the prom with Luke and eventually marry him and I want to be his equal and his friend, and I can't believe that this whole time, after all these years, you've been against me and you've never th-thought..."

Her voice finally broke, and tears streamed down her cheeks, and finally, Sonny stood from his seat and tried to usher her away. He put his hand on her shoulder and gently maneuvered her away from Vito and from this... mess. "Sof, let's just go upstairs--"

"--You've never thought I was special, have you, Papa?" She sobbed, shrugging her brother off of her and running a hand through her freshly rolled hair. "You think I'm like every other g-girl. Stupid and vapid and... d-docile and subordinate. You th-think that all I want is to be a mother and b-bow down to some stupid fucking WOP who p-pushes buttons for my father... and th-that is all you've ever wanted for me..."

Vito sat up straight and debated whether or not to stand up and comfort her, but he decided against it. He knew it would only upset her more. "Sofia, I do not think you're stupid or vapid, and you're the most special woman in the world to me, and all I want is for you to be happy. But I will not compromise my beliefs and my values for you, _tesora_. I cannot do that. You will not just be a mother and a wife, you'll be the leader of your home, a matriarch. You will teach your children about the world, and I promise you that you'll meet a respectful Sicilian boy someday who will give you the whole world, and I will be so proud of you when you marry him and you realize that loving this... this Trentini boy was silly and that you are preserving my pride and our bloodline. You need to go to sleep, _figlia_. You'll feel better tomorrow and we can talk about this more when you've cleared your head. I'm sorry that I have upset you, but I will not change my mind about what I know is best for my daughter. I have to keep you pure of heart and soul. That is my job as a father, and that will always be my job--"

"I'm not fucking pure, Papa, I am not pure and there's nothing you can do to change that--"

"You watch your language with me, Sofia Francesca Corleone, I won't tolerate that any longer, I am your father and you'll respect me and stop speaking to me so vulgarly... and you are pure, _mia figlia_, you... you are a virgin, and you have not been with another man intimately before and I've raised you to save yourself for the marriage bed, and that is what I mean by--"

"--No, no, no I am not. I am not a virgin," she spat, glaring at him with daggers in her eyes, and Sonny bit his lip and tried fruitlessly to lead her away once again. "I'm not a virgin and I haven't been... s-since this summer, when I let Jimmy McPherson fuck me in his parents' Mick bed while they were downstairs s-singing Christmas carols. So there. You failed your one job, Papa, I'm not pure and I let a man who wasn't even an Italian defile me right under your nose. _Nel nomme del padre, e de figlio, e dello Spirito Santo_, I'm... not a fucking virgin, and I've had sex more than once and I like it, and I'm going to b-bed, and you can beat me, and you can lock me in my room for the rest of my life, or you can send me to a convent or have me exorcised, but it won't change the fact that, like all f-four of your sons, I am not a virgin and I am not god-honoring or pure or whatever the fuck else, and I'll never f-forgive you for how you've made me feel and h-how I know you think about women now and I hope you know that, P-Papa... So goodnight! Before you come upstairs to beat the shit out of me for the first time in my wh-whole life, why don't you start making out the guest list to my Sicilian mafioso we-wedding! Be sure not to put any Trentinis on th-there, wouldn't want to break my heart all over again! _Lunga vita alla Sicilia!_" And with that, she turned around and sped towards the stairs, and Sonny gave his father a remorseful stare and followed directly after her.

And Vito, pale as a ghost, felt his chest heave and his world turn gray.


	5. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

_"Eternal Father, I offer Thee the Most Precious Blood of Thy Divine Son, Jesus, in union with the masses said throughout the world today, for all the holy souls in purgatory, for sinners everywhere, for sinners in the universal church, those in my own home and within my family. Amen."_

**-Prayer to Gertrude, patron saint of the dead, for dying souls in purgatory.**


	6. Tom, this is business and this man is taking it very, very personal.

**December 1943**  
It was Christmastime at the Corleone household, and Santino Corleone was feeling nostalgic. Today was the day that they'd trimmed the Christmas tree; lined it with strings of popcorn and tinsel and a million little silver ornaments as they did every year; now complete with his own children running amuck every which way. And it was as he watched his little sister-- now a senior in high school-- place the star at the top of the tree as she did every year, that Sonny began to reminisce. He remembered Papa lifting her up in his arms when she was four or five years old to put up that damn star, and her boasting to him about always being the one he asked to do it. And then he realized that it had been far too long since they'd had a real talk.

Sonny was a family man now, and it had been a handful of years since he'd moved out of the house. Sofia had been in fifth grade then, and now she was nearly done with high school. He was a full six years older than her, and they'd never been as close as she was to Michael, but she was his sister. And now he felt like a distant uncle to her. They had menial conversations and catch-ups, and he'd tease her about boys and her clothes and the music she listened to, like an older brother would, but now he was realizing that part of him missed the old days.

He missed when his mother would give them a quarter each and have him take her to the pictures, and he'd grumble about having to take his grubby little sister to see the newest Chaplin feature; and he missed her sneaking him cookies because he knew Papa would never spank her for taking extras from the jar like he would do to Sonny; and he missed when Mama would force him to let her play baseball with he and Fredo and their friends and she could barely hold up the bat; and he missed her walking around the house and singing show tunes at the top of her lungs before mass on Sundays, and him telling her to shut up so he could sleep in; and he missed catching her eavesdropping when he brought girls over late at night; and he missed being amazed at her knowledge of current events and politics; and laughing when she'd started a heated argument with Michael over Mussolini at Thanksgiving dinner this year.

She was hilarious, and outspoken and fun-loving, and she'd grown up so much, and he wanted to let her know he still cared about her just as much as he had before he'd gotten married.

So after the children wound down and Roosevelt's Fireside Chat ended (Sofia never missed an installment of Roosevelt's malarkey; she was a staunch Democrat and she couldn't even vote yet), Sonny gave Sandra the keys to his car and told her he'd be home late. He'd asked Tom to join him for a night in, and together they had driven Theresa and the Hagen kids home and then gone to the drugstore for beer and Camels.

Fredo had excused himself to bed early; he'd said he had a headache. And after he and Vito and Carmela had all gone upstairs to sleep, Sonny nudged Sofia and asked her if she wanted to play Rook in his room like old times. He'd retrieved the beer from Tom's car, and the four of them went upstairs, laughing like kids, and set up camp in Sonny and Tom's old bedroom. The card game had quickly been abandoned in favor of chat. Six beers in and Sonny felt like a teenager again. Tom and Michael were both on Christmas break, and he could tell that the two of them were relishing in the feeling of feeling youthful and carefree, too.

"Sof, how in the fuck didja down all them beers that fast? I ain't ever seen a girl drink beer like that before, they always grit their teeth and sip it like tea," Sonny teased his sister, who was perched on his bed beside Tom and chugging her fourth can of Tacoma. She was very petite, and so she was already pretty wasted, which amused him.

She set aside the empty can and shrugged with a sly smile. "My boyfriend drinks beer by the gallon. He turned me onto it, I guess. It tastes like piss when it's cheap, but it has its virtues. It's better than vodka."

Sonny widened his eyes in a mix of surprise and delight. "Whoa, whoa, whoa... Miss Priss has a fuckin' _boyfriend_ now? Michael, did you know Sofia's got a boyfriend?"

Michael was the only sober one in the room. He never drank. It annoyed Sonny, truth be told. His little brother didn't know how to lighten up, or so he thought. "Yes. She talks about him in her letters all the time. He's a Northern boy, and Pop doesn't know about them, so don't keep hollering about it," he explained calmly, taking a puff from his cigarette and flicking his ash into an empty beer can.

Sonny sat up straighter at that, crossing his legs Indian style in his place on the floor and dramatically setting aside his beer. "You're seeing a goddamned _Northerner?_ Sofia, Papa's gonna flip his shit when he finds out. You'd better have a plan for that, kid. You know how he is."

Sofia rolled her eyes at that, reaching for Tom's cigarettes that were perched between them on the bed. She stuck one in her mouth and gestured for Tom's lighter. He seemed surprised for only half a second before he handed it off to her. "I know," she scowled as she lit her fag. "He doesn't even think I've kissed a boy yet." Smoke poured out of her nostrils as she straightened her back and upturned her chin to do an impression of their father. It got Sonny every time; she was a real actress. "_Piccola_, I have taught you about the virtues of womanhood before. You should save yourself for your husband and keep the sanctity of your marriage. That is the way that God intends it..." She added in a dramaticized head turn and a flick of the wrist, and all three of them snickered.

"Well, Pop's right about one thing, kid, and that's that men only think about one thing when they're your age, and that's sex. So mind yourself with this guy and if he gets any ideas then you call me... what's his name?" Sonny pressed, going to work on his beer again.

She let out a drunken titter at that and took another drag of her cigarette. He'd never seen her smoke before. She looked so... grown up in her rolled hair, and her v-necked dress sans the cardigan she'd been wearing earlier, with her knees crossed and smoke flowing elegantly out of her mouth. Men thought her to be beautiful, and he knew it, and he worried for her sometimes because of it.

"His name's Luke. Luke Trentini. He lives in the City. I met him at mass. He's a looker! He looks Sicilian, actually, he's got curly black hair and olive skin--"

"_\--and big brown eyes that tell a beautiful story every time I gaze into them_," Michael interjected in a mocking, high pitched voice. That's how she'd described him in her letters. She was smitten with him, and Michael knew it.

She grabbed a pillow off the bed and chucked it at him as hard as she could, nearly burning herself with her cigarette in the process. "Fuck you! You're just jealous 'cuz I'm getting fucked and you're not, _collegiate Corleone_. Are all the girls at Harvard as frigid and tight assed as you are, big brother?"

Michael tried to suppress a smile at that one, and Sonny and Tom stared at each other in shock. Their kid sister wasn't a virgin, and she was drunk enough to tell them that. And Michael knew?

"Jesus Christ, Mike, you knew he'd popped her and you haven't killed him yet? What the hell are they teaching you at that Ivy League fuck show?" The oldest Corleone teased.

Beside him, his brother laughed, reaching for another one of his cigarettes. "I guess I'm not as old fashioned as you and Pop, Sonny. She asked me how important sex is to men last time I visited and I just assumed--"

"I did no such thing!" Their sister slurred from across the room. "I asked you how old you were when you lost it and then you asked me why I wanted to know, and then I said, 'Well, Michael, I've been seeing this boy from church and I know how important sex is to men, and I want to make sure we aren't moving too fast'. Don't flatter yourself. And he didn't..." She twitched her nose at the crudeness of the term. "_Pop me_, Sonny, a fucking Mick did."

Sonny nearly choked on his beer, and even Michael's eyes turned to saucers. Tom turned toward her at the revelation, and she stared at the floor in remorse, now smoking in silence.

"Just to clarify, Sofie, by Mick you mean an Irish guy, right? Not a nice Sicilian boy named Mickey Barbini?" Tom quipped, trying to keep his laughter at bay.

Sofia paused for a moment, finally working up the courage to look up and eye them all again. "Yeah..." She said sheepishly, twiddling her cigarette between her manicured fingers. "It was a fleeting thing, really. I went over to his house one night this summer, and he kissed me, one thing led to another, and then we did it on his parents' bed, actually, and afterwards we made the bed and we went back downstairs, and, um... his whole family, his mom and his dad and all five of his little paddy siblings are sitting at the piano playing 'Deck the Halls' in the middle of June, and his mother looks up at me and goes," She sat up straight and shifted her voice to fit a harsh, thick Irish New Yorker accent, "Oh, hiya Jimmy! Who's yuh little friend?' and Jimmy goes, 'Oh, this is my classmate Sofia Corleone, we're working on a science project together, Ma!' and then I see her face fall cuz now she knows I'm a WOP and she goes,'Oh, well... Benny and I ah making spaghetti layttuh, I know yuh've probably had a lotta spaghetti, but we just love a good meat sawce. You wanna join us, sugah plum?"

They all stared at her in disbelief for a moment. What in the world was there to say to that? But Michael broke the stillness. He bursted into laughter, a guffaw that filled the whole room, and Sofia laughed right along with him, and Tom and Sonny followed in suit.

"While his parents... his whole fucking family was downstairs? You did it... Fia, you did _not_ do it in his parents' bed!" Michael challenged her, outstretching a finger of mock disapproval at her.

"I did too! Don't you point your finger at me, you Ivy League, guinea, hustling bastard!" She managed through her chortling. She finally collected herself enough to finish off her cigarette and fill in the missing piece of the story. "He said, 'Babe, I want this to be real special, y'know, and we can do it on my bed if you wanna, but my folks have real nice sheets, and my brothers could barge in on us, nobody's gonna barge in on us when we're in their room.' The fucking bastard told me his parents were out of town, I guess they came home while he was fumbling with his zipper like an idiot. So, to summarize, a Mick took my virginity and gave me his mom's shitty Irish spaghetti all in one day. She had the audacity to tell me an Italian gave her the recipe. And after we finished eating she said, "Ya know, I know you two ah just workin' on a science project, but I just don't know about my son mixing in with the dagos. Suhly you can undahstand that, doll, I'm shuh ya parents raised ya not to like ah kind."

And they kept on hooting and hollering, and she was too drunk to care that she'd just spilled all of that to her older brothers, who'd never let her hear the end of it.

"So you're seeing a paddy and a northerner, little sister? And you always call me the ice cold one--"

"No, no, I haven't talked to Jimmy McPherson since the day he fucked me. It lasted two minutes and he smelled like kerosene, and all else I have to say about it is that it was underwhelming and a little bit... sad. He was a good kisser, so I figured maybe he'd know what he was doing. But no such luck. He said hi to me after mass a couple weeks back and I ran away from him."

And they busted out laughing once again, and Sonny tossed his sister another can of beer, and he wondered when the hell Sofia had gotten this goddamned funny.

____________________________________

**May 1944**

Sonny hesitantly knocked on his sister's door, which he'd heard slam shut just seconds ago. He could feel her fury from outside of her room. He didn't think he'd ever seen her so upset. "Sof, can I come in?" Her brother called to her.

Through her weeping, she managed an embittered, "Sure, why the hell not?"

He pushed open the door and closed it behind him, staring at her forlorn figure. She was kneeling before her bed with her fingers folded. Sonny didn't think he'd seen her pray outside of dinner when Mama forced them to beforehand or at mass since she was a little girl.

She slowly rose from the hardwood floor and stared up at him forlornly. He suddenly felt too tall. Sonny was the tallest of his brothers at 6'1". And Sofia was no more than 5'3" on a good day. "What do you want, Sonny? Are you here to tell me I'm an idiot? Because I already know that."

He put his hands on his hips and stared at her in pity, pursing his lips and quickly shaking his head at the notion. "No, no, kid... I mean, you definitely shouldn't have said all that, but you were upset, and he's unreasonable, and you need to—"

"Sonny, I have to tell you something. And you have to promise me you won't tell Papa. Or Mama, or anybody else. You can know, and Michael and Fredo and Tom can know, but that's it. I've already told Michael in a letter, but..." She paused, wiping at her eyes and clearing her winded throat.

He let out a deep and measured sigh. "What is it?"

"Promise me first. You have to swear it to me, Sonny, I can't... I can't tell you if there's even a sliver of a chance you'd tell Papa."

He shoved his hands into his drainpipes and nodded hesitantly. His sister was damned smart, but she came up with insane ideas sometimes and he had to pray to God this wasn't one of them. "Okay. I promise I won't tell anyone, Sofia."

Sofia inhaled deeply through her nose and straightened out her skirt, attempting to look as calm as possible. "After graduation, Luke and I are leaving the city together. We're going to California. Papa doesn't have any connections in Los Angeles, I've checked into it, but Luke's got an uncle who lives out there. And... he'll help us start a family and get out life together, and I can try my hand at acting, and even if it doesn't work out, Sonny, we can be free of... this bullshit..." She paused, peering around the room in clear agony. "And I didn't know for sure whether or not I wanted to leave for good until tonight, but... he... I'm so... I can't believe he said all that to me, I feel stupid for even thinking that he'd see me as—"

"Sof, you're not stupid. You're smart. Damned smart." He reluctantly put his hands on her shoulders and gave them a tight squeeze. "You're iron fisted and you're smart and strong willed, and Pop's damned stubborn. And I'm sorry, kid, I'm sorry he's old fashioned and he don't want you to go out and live your dreams, but Sofia, you can't just up and leave. You can't leave your family like this. You're gonna get over this guy someday and you'll—"

"Sonny, he'll kill him!" Sofia interjected, her lip quivering all over again. "I can't... I can't stand the thought of never seeing him again, I'm in love with him, I am, and I thought... maybe... maybe Papa would change his mind, but he won't, he never will. And I need Luke. I want to marry him, Sonny, I want to marry him and have his kids and if I have to leave Papa to do it then so be it. B-because it's either... Sonny, if he finds out we're still seeing each other, he'd have him killed... He knows we—"

"Sof, he would not have him killed if..." He paused halfway through the sentence, contemplating whether or not what he was about to say were true. In his hesitancy, he found his answer. He didn't know, and that meant that she was probably right. "Kid... I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to stop seeing him, I know that—"

"No! No, no!" She insisted, her voice layering on top of his. "You knew you wanted to marry Sandra when you were my age, you proposed when you were eighteen. I'm eighteen in two months and I know I wanna marry him, I know it doesn't get any better than him, and he's a carpenter... he's a good carpenter, and he can make a living for us both, he'll be a great father, I... Sonny, I can't imagine life without him, he makes me so happy, he makes me so... happy, and Papa's gonna have me followed around now, you know he will, he's fucking crazy when it comes to me... and I can't risk his life, I need him. I need him, Sonny, maybe that makes me a fool but I don't care. I'm in love with him. Hopelessly. And he wants to marry me, too, Sonny, please. Please help us, I'm begging you, I'm begging you, I've fucked up my entire life and I—"

Sonny brushed back her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his thumb grazing her shoulder soothingly. She felt like his daughter in that moment; and it was a foreign feeling to him. "You didn't fuck up your entire life, kid, you just made a mistake, a big one, and I should've stopped you, but I—"

And at that, she bursted into tears, clinging to him desperately. And he realized then that he had to help her. He had to, because he'd made her cry, and hearing his sister cry was one of the worst sounds in the world. When she cried, you knew it was bad.

Sonny strung his arms around her and pecked the top of her head. "You're gonna be okay, kid. I promise. I'll help you, and I'll get Fredo and Tom to help you, I'm sure Michael's already on the same page as you. But you're gonna have your work cut out for you, Sof... Our father won't let you go without a fight."

She said nothing for a good while, and Sonny allowed his sister to cry in his arms for the first time since she was an infant. The only noise shared between the two of them was her faint sniffling for a minute or two.

And then she said it. Said what Sonny had feared from the get go, ever since that night in his old bedroom when she told him she wasn't a virgin.

"Sonny, I'm pregnant."  
____________________________

**December 1945**

Christmas at the Corleone family had always been Sonny's favorite time of year. Papa would always take the five of his kids into the woods in northern New Jersey to pick out a pine tree to trim. Sonny would be the one carrying the ax, and he'd be grumbling about how heavy it was the entire time. Tom would be the one walking off the trails to explore the terrain for possible candidates. Fredo would make incessant suggestion after suggestion in hopes that he'd be the one to pick out just the right one. Michael would never breathe a word, he'd just shove his hands in his pocket and nod in agreement every so often.

And Sofia? Sofia would shoot down every single one of their picks, and Sonny would always lose his temper when she was the only one who wouldn't agree that a tree was the right choice. But Papa always listened to her. Every year, her vote was the only one that counted to him. Because she was his princess and he'd give her the whole fucking forest if he could.

But this year, they had scrambled to get a Christmas tree at the very last minute. Carmela asked one of the errand boys to cut one down for her grandchildren's sake the week before Christmas. And she'd been the only one to decorate it. Last year, Sofia had not been present for the annual Corleone Christmas tree trimming, and this year, though she was home, she may as well have been absent again.

Sofia had changed. Drastically. And it scared the shit out of Sonny. She no longer read the newspaper every morning. She no longer told jokes at breakfast, and she no longer sang all the damned time or argued about politics with Michael after dinner, and she would cringe and double back when Sonny touched her or when Mama dropped a plate or the door slammed or whatever else. Michael or Tom had to coax her into eating at every meal. She was rail thin, and she rarely smiled, and Sonny was afraid to know why.

He knew that Michael wasn't telling him something. That he and Tom had discovered something terrible when they retrieved Sofia and his nephew, but they were keeping it under wraps. All Michael had told him was that Tony had kicked out Sofia and Little Mike, and he'd beat her, and that now he was dead. And Sonny had asked him a million questions more after that: How was it bad enough to where Papa would have him killed? Why was she such a wreck now? Why the hell didn't she tell us? Why the fuck did she marry him in the first place, I never got that? What are we doing to help her get back to normal?

But Michael had told him to worry about the family war that was happening now. He'd told him to worry about getting rid of the Turk and unraveling whoever he had under wraps. Papa was in the hospital, and Sonny was temporarily the Don. There was totally anarchy amongst the family protected areas in all five boroughs of the City, and Sonny was under enough pressure as was without adding Sofia into the equation. Even Fredo had gotten pulled into it. He was involved in this whole Sofia debacle, too, and Sonny knew it. And he hated being left out of the loop. He was the oldest and he was head of the house until Pop returned home, and he should know what was going on under the roof.

Michael said he had it under control. That Sofia was being taken to a psychiatrist in the City, one on their payroll, and she was safe and he'd tell him more when everything cooled down. Tom and even Fredo were no better. No one was letting him in and he couldn't stand it anymore.

Sofia was seated at the piano. That was one thing that was still like old times. She'd play show tunes and hum along to the music, and that was his only indication that she was doing alright.

Sonny had been keeping his distance from her. She did not seem angry with him as he had expected she would be. She was distant towards them all. Michael was the only one who could effectively urge her to eat, bathe, lay off the wine. And he was the only one who could convince her to stop hovering over baby Michael day and night and get some sleep. She rarely left his side, and it wasn't hard for Sonny to gauge why. For the moment, the toddler quietly played with an assortment of toys that Fredo had picked up for him atop a quilt as his mother did the one thing that seemed to relax her nowadays.

Remaining silent, Sonny sat upright in the chair diagonal to the grand piano, staring at his sister expectantly. He watched her fingertips glide elegantly up and down the keys, and finally, the damned song came to a close and he cleared his throat to capture his attention.

Her gaze flickered towards him and she offered him a solemn smile, shifting towards him atop the wooden piano bench. "Hello, Don Corleone," she teased him, and the little jab put him at ease if only slightly.

"Hey, stranger," he responded softly. "How're you holding up?"

Sofia shrugged, straightening out her dress and avoiding eye contact with him. She always looked so damned nervous now. What in the hell had that bastard done to her? "I'm okay. We thought Mikey had a fever, but he's doing just fine now... He's doing really well, I thought it would take more getting used to; him being in a new house and all, but he--"

"How are you doing, kid? I know Mikey's okay. He's a tough kid, I'll tell you that. But I'm wondering about you, Sof. We hardly talk anymore," he reasoned gently, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth and toyed around with his lighter before engulfing the tip in its fluid flame.

She seemed offput by the question. Unsure of how to answer it. "I'm... okay. I'm just trying to keep my chin up." She cleared her throat, eyes trailing to the floor. Her whole body was... drooping. It was hunched over in a posture he'd never seen her wear before. "My um... the doctor I've been seeing says I need more sleep. And to put myself on a rigid schedule. I play the piano for an hour a day before his nap, hence what I'm doing right now. And then while he's asleep, I read, and then it's lunchtime for us both, and then pretty soon it's dinner. And that's about as exciting as my life gets, honestly."

Sonny took a drag from his cigarette, scrutinizing her body language heavily. He could tell she was lying to him; or at least withholding information. But how to get her to talk? "When does that Jew doctor of yours say you're gonna act like Sofia Corleone again?" He asked, straight faced. Perhaps a bit too coldly.

She bit her lip, and he could tell that that had hurt her feelings. But he'd figured from the beginning that that was necessary to gauge what in the hell was really going on.

His kid sister pivoted her feet towards the piano again, brushing her fingers over the keys in mild upset. He pitied her. He really did, and he hated pitying a person like Sofia.

"I'm... Sonny, here's what I'll tell you: I'm okay. I am going to be fine. A lot happened while I was gone, a lot that... that I can't talk about with you just yet, but I'm going to be fine. And so is my son. And that's all that matters for now."

Sonny took a thick drag, a large cloud of smoke exiting his lips as he considered that answer, and after a moment, he shook his head even though she was no longer looking at him. "No. No, it isn't all that matters. You... you aren't yourself at all, Sofia, you don't talk to nobody no more. You don't make eye contact with me, you don't ever leave the house, you never argue with nobody, you barely eat anything and we have to fight you to go to sleep, you're high strung all the time and you don't--"

_"I know all of that!"_ She interjected, pressing a series of keys which produced a jumbled cacophony of sounds, and startled both him and baby Michael, who began whimpering from a few feet away. The young mother exhaled deeply through her nose and stood from the bench in order to scoop him up. She pressed a kiss to his soft cheek and shushed him, and he immediately stopped his fussing. The two of them sat atop the bench; he perched atop his mother's lap. Curiously, the toddler banged on a few of the keys himself, and she let out a little laugh.

It always stunned Sonny to see his baby sister behaving so... motherly. She was still just a kid in his mind. Twenty; same age that he'd been when Sandra had the twins. But Sofia didn't seem like she was ready to be a mother. Or maybe that was because he hadn't seen her since she was eighteen and her whole world was turned upside down.

She again faced her brother, eyes now piercing his own. The youngest Corleone sibling lowered her voice to something just above a whisper, running a hand through her son's hair as he meddled with the piano. "Sonny, I will not argue about this in front of my child. I won't. I've been through a lot. A lot, and I'm sure you can guess the nature of it, but I won't let myself talk about what I did to myself in front of my baby, I--"

"What the fuck do you _mean_, 'what I did to myself'?! Sofia, he beat you! He hit you, my baby sister, and... and god knows what else, and you know you can tell me anything, you can tell me what happened, because I know you're all keeping something from me and I ain't a fucking idiot!" He bellowed, his voice now at a level ten. It was as though his temper pierced right through mother and child. And immediately, Sofia cowered in her seat and the baby in her lap began to wail. But he kept going like he always did. "I know something's going on, something hotheaded Sonny ain't allowed to know about, and I wanna know what the hell it is so I can help you! So I can help my goddamned sister and my nephew, so you can stop being coy, Sofia, and just tell me what in the fuck is so goddamned bad that I can't know about it! I am the Don! _I'm_ the fucking Don and the head of the house until Papa comes back, do you understand what that fucking means?! You're back--"

"Sonny, leave her alone!" Tom's voice filled the room, and all at once he stopped. The lawyer approached the scene of the crime with an irate pace. He was fuming, red in the face, even. And Sonny could tell he'd screwed up almost immediately. He shut his mouth and turned his attention towards his sister, who was crouched over her screaming child and clinging to him like both their lives depended on it. She was terrified. Trembling.

He shifted towards Tom with a contrite look in his eyes, ashing his cigarette in the tray beside him as he prepared to defend himself; fix his fuck up. "I just wanted to know what the hell was--"

"Get out of here," Tom cut him off with a stern glare. "I told you not to lose your temper with her for a reason, Sonny, now just get the hell out of here and let me take care of this... no, wait..." He paused, cautiously approaching his aggrieved sister. He leaned over her and gingerly held out his arms. "Sofie... you're alright, kid, he's done now. Can you give me the baby, Fia? We can put him down for his nap for you."

Sonny could hear her inhale deeply, and she loosened her grip on Michael's body and wordlessly handed him off to the consigliere. Tom, in turn, handed him off to a fuming Santino. He didn't bother to linger. He just stood from his seat with the baby he'd terrified in his arms and went off in search for his mother.

As soon as he'd gone, Tom knelt down beside the piano bench and rested his hand on Sofia's back. She was teary-eyed, a sight that hurt his chest every time he'd seen it these past few weeks, but he could tell by the look in her eyes that she was embarrassed and angry and disgusted with herself. How many times had Tom seen Sonny yell at her just like that, only for her to shoot up from her seat and put a finger in his face and give him the wittiest comeback he'd ever heard in his life? At least a dozen. And now he'd made her cry and shake like a tree in a storm, probably for the first time in his life.

"Sofia, I'm gonna talk to him and get him to understand that he can't--"

"Tom," she began, blotting away her tears with the tips of her fingers. "Do you think... Do you think Sonny would look at me different forever if he knew everything?"

He paused, carefully considering his answer to the question. Tom knew that he would look at her differently forever now, and that was his own damned fault. But he also knew that Sofia hated being looked down upon, especially by Sonny. Because if Sonny thought his sister to be helpless, he would no longer be allowed to be Sonny around her: angry, loud, mercilessly mean at times, boyish, rude. She didn't want him to have to change to be around her. She wanted normalcy back, any sort of normal. Craved it, even.

Sonny couldn't know yet. Not with his temper. It wasn't time yet to tell Sonny. First, they had to make sure everything else fell into place.

"I... I don't think he'd look at you differently forever. No. He'd be gentler with you for awhile, that's for sure. But only for awhile. Only till you're better. And you _will_ get better, Sofie. It just takes time. And Michael and Fredo and I know that, and soon Sonny will understand that, and you... you just have to take it easy." She opened her mouth to provide a defense to that part of it and he immediately shut her down. "I'm not saying that you're weak right now. I'm not saying that you need to be shielded from anything, or that you're incapable of anything you're normally capable of. Look what you're doing for the family, Sofia. After the misery that your father caused you, you're helping him in the most selfless way, and that takes loyalty and it takes guts. And you have plenty of guts and you always will. I don't want you to think of yourself as weak, Sofie, never. I just want you to think of yourself as winded. You've been through hell and now you need to give yourself a chance to breathe before you're back to yourself, do you understand me?"

She contemplated his words and squeezed her eyes shut, and her lip began to quiver. More tears streamed down her cheeks, and then she startled him a bit. She turned towards him and coiled her arms around his neck, and she whispered her thanks under her breath. And he kissed her cheek and embraced her paternally. "You don't need to thank me for anything. You... I am amazed at what you did to save yourself and your son, Sofie, you did it all on your own and you're brilliant, and... and Sollozzo doesn't stand a chance with what you have on him, kid. You're more than making up for everything. I promise that you are."

____________________________

_"Questo nostro amore, vita mia_

_lo prospetti felice_

_destinato a durare per sempre._

_Dei del cielo, fate voi che lei dica il vero,_

_che lo prometta sincera e dal cuore,_

_che si possa per tutta la vita_

_mantener questo patto inviolabile."_

-"Ma il cuore non ascolti le ragioni" di Gaius Valerius Catallus

_"This love of ours my life_

_I predict will be happy_

_destined to last forever._

_Gods of the sky, do what you deem to be true_

_that promises to be sincere and from the heart,_

_which can be for a lifetime,_

_keep this inviolable covenant."_

-"But the Heart Does not Listen to Reason" by Gaius Valerius Catallus

____________________________________

**The Evening Star; May 28th, 1944**

**Young man shot dead in Brooklyn**

_Authorities are investigating the murder of Lucas Trentini, which occurred late last Thursday evening. An unnamed witness told authorities that a Negro man fired three shots at Trentini, stole his pocketbook, and fled the scene. Trentini, 18, graduated this year from James Madison High School. He is survived by his parents, Angelo and Martina Trentini, and five siblings: Frank, George, Alexander, Rachel, and Susan. A memorial service will be held at 12 p.m. this Friday at Saint Peter's Cathedral._


	7. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

_"Oh, good Saint Gerard, powerful intercessor before God and wonder worker of our day, confidently I call upon you and seek your aid. On Earth you always fulfilled God's designs. Help me now to do the holy will of God. Implore the Master of Life, from whom all paternity proceeds, to render me fruitful in offspring, that I may raise up children to God in this life, and in the world to come, heirs to the Kingdom of His Glory. Amen."_

**-Prayer to Gerard Mejella, patron saint of childbirth.**


	8. Mike, you got it all wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: discussion of sexual assault.
> 
> A plot twist is in our midst, ladies and gentleman!

_"L' amuri è come a tussi...nun si po ammucciari."_

-Proverbio Siciliano

_"Love is like a cough... impossible to hide."_

-Sicilian Proverb

____________________________

**January 1927**

An eight month old Sofia Francesca Corleone, clad in a christening gown that had once belonged to her mother, was screaming up a storm at the cathedral's grand alter. She was a finicky baby as was. She'd been born with a colic, and she wailed for an hour straight any time her mother put her to bed.

Almost immediately after the priest had begun, just as he'd suspected would happen, Sofia began to cry. And her screaming became louder and louder as time persisted. Carmela and Genco and the priest all seemed to be unphased, but Vito wanted so badly to take his only daughter from his wife's arms and soothe her. He was the only one who could effectively get her to stop crying no matter what. Sometimes, when Carmela spent ages trying to hush her before bedtime, she would bring her downstairs to her husband's study and ask him to try his best with her. And he would take her into his arms and bounce her; sing to her occasionally. Within minutes, he'd have her asleep, and each and every time, his wife would marvel at him as he handed the infant back to her.

_"Comu?"_ She'd ask him, and he would offer her a gentle smile. _How?_

_"Nun lu sacciu. Idda me vogghia."_ _I don't know. She loves me._

Vito couldn't stand the sound of a baby crying. Most people couldn't, but to him, it was torture. And he knew he could calm her down if he were able to, but he couldn't disrupt the ceremony.

He was doing his best to stand still, dreading the moment when the priest doused her curly head of hair in holy water. She was already furious and he could tell it was not going to get any better. Vito struggled not to grimace as the water dripped down her head and into the bénetier. The sound that followed was horrendous. It bounced off the walls in the near-empty sanctuary. He felt pained. It was as though she thought she were being killed.

And it persisted, despite Carmela's patient swaying. He could barely hear Genco's hushed affirmations over her yowls. But finally it was over, and they were free to go, and Vito did not even ask his wife if he could have her. As gently as one could do, he pulled the baby out of her grasp and immediately began shushing her. The man of the house kissed her tiny forehead and began bouncing her. _:Veni ca, piccola. Comu cianciri? Sugnu ccani ora,"_ he cooed, sliding into one of the pews. _Come here, little one. Why are you crying? I'm here now._ She stared up at him, bewildered, her small eyes full of anger. And he smiled down at her and took her tiny hand in his. "These little fingers are God's fingers now, _tesora._ I am proud of my daughter today." He'd been speaking more English around her lately, now that she was getting big enough to understand at least part of what he was saying.

Sofia quieted down if only slightly, though she was still crying intensely. She gave him a rather amusing expression; one of bewilderment. Her father let out a laugh and sat her upright in his lap facing him, and allowed her to cling to his hands to support her own weight. And gradually, the cries softened more and more. "Sofia, you are wondering why we brought you here and poured water on your head, aren't you? It seems silly now, but you will be glad we did it later. You're dry now, _piccola,_ God asked us to make your head wet for just a moment so that He could bless you. Do you have any questions for your Papa?"

She was only whining now, but she released one of his hands in response and reached out to touch his nose. She had developed a fascination with people's faces. Grabbing things. Her mother never wore her hair down nowadays because she always tugged it with ferocious intent.

His daughter's fingers dug into the strip of skin just above his nostrils, and he smiled down at her fondly. "God's fingers want my nose, then? What if I sneeze on them, _piccola?_ Then I would have to ask them for forgiveness." He joshingly let his eyes wander upwards, eyes on the church's grand ceiling as he offered up a mock prayer. "_Nel nomme de Padre, del figlio, e dello Spirito_ Santo, please forgive me. Your new daughter's fingers are hurting me, and I must take them off of me." And he gingerly pried her fingertips off of his face and kissed them. "Sofia, your father loves you very much. Very much. Both of them. The one in _Paradiso_ and the one whose nose you love so much. I hate to upset my children, but sometimes I must do what's right for them even when it makes them cry. Let's go now, Sofia."

And he hoisted her up and kissed her baby soft cheek one last time, and with that, Vito Corleone strode to the entrance of the church, crossed himself with holy water alongside his wife, his dearest friend, and his five children, and thanked God he'd gotten through that ceremony.

____________________________________

**November 1945**

Michael sat upright in his seat, his heart still pulsing rapidly. The cigarette burning between his fingers had barely been smoked, and he'd gotten ash on the floor twice now. Rarely was he this absentminded, but he was so lost in thought that he couldn't even remember to smoke properly. The drive from New Hampshire had been spent in agony.

Vito had been hit. His father, the most respected leader of all five families, the patriarch and the glue that held the family together, had just been shot and was in critical condition in a hospital bed. And Michael hadn't been there to help console his mother or keep his brothers collected through the chaos. And he wasn't much help now, either. Sonny was running around yelling at everyone, and Tom was pacing about in deep thought, and Fredo was still running his hands over his face in deep guilt. The house felt like one made of cards without Papa there to keep everyone collected. Michael was due to go and visit him, but Sonny hadn't given him the okay yet, and so he sat there. In a mind-numbing silence.

The telephone in his father's study rang, and his thoughts were interrupted. He was glad to have a good excuse to stand up. Corleone ashed his neglected cigarette and sprung from his seat, pacing over to the receiver and taking a quick glance around the room as he lifted it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"This is long distance calling. I have a collect phone call from Miss Sofia Corleone, will you accept the charges?" The operator recanted.

Michael furrowed an eyebrow. Sofia. She'd told him in her letters that she wouldn't call over here until it was safe to. Tattaglia's men had a hold on her phone lines and she'd hung up on Sonny the few times that he'd called her. They'd been trying to think of a way to tell her Papa had been hit, but it was far from the top of their list of priorities.

He cleared his throat, gaze shifting towards Tom. "Who is it?" His brother asked softly.

"Sofia," he replied with a straight face. Tom's expression morphed first to confusion and then to concern. "Yes. Yes, I'll accept the charges."

"Hold, please."

There was a pause, and Tom took several quick strides over to Michael and the telephone, hands on his hips.

"Fia?" Michael whispered, as though lowering his voice would keep anyone listening in from hearing it.

"Michael? Is that you?" His sister's voice replied. God, it had been so long since he'd heard her speak. She sounded so winded.

"Yes, it's me, Sofia, why are you calling? Where are you? Papa's been--"

"I know just why you're calling me," she responded quickly, far too chipper. On the other line, Michael could hear the sound of a baby babbling. "Michael, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Very carefully, do you understand me?"

Michael sat up straight in his chair, eyes shifting around the room. It was just he and Tom, and now his sister was on the phone line. "What's the matter, Sofia?" He could not press her and he knew it.

"Michael," Sofia began, punctuating his name almost as though she were maternally scolding him. "I've found your Buck Rogers ray gun. It wasn't in the snow after all."

He and Tom immediately looked at one another in recognition. Michael stood up straighter and cleared his throat before continuing. "Where? Where is it, Sofia? Why did you take it?"

"My son has it. Michael, I need you to take me to my dance lessons. But first you need to get me my dancing shoes."

He considered the sentence for only a moment, eyes still on Tom. "Where are your shoes, Fia?"

There was a brief pause, and Michael could hear the baby begin to cry. "Shhh..." He heard her coo. "Michael, if you don't get me my dancing shoes before you take me to my lessons, then I won't be able to give you your ray gun. I need the shoes so I can dance safely, and so that my Michelangelo painting will not be stolen. I need you to pick up the shoes right after _Magic Island_ starts. They're in a woman's shoe box in the apartment with no curtains."

Ray gun. Michelangelo painting.

Danger. Little Mike.

She was in danger. She and his nephew. Tattaglia wanted them for something. And she needed him to bring her something.

_Right after<.i>Magic Island_ _starts._

As children, every single Saturday at noon, Michael and Sofia would sit before the radio set in the living room and listen to _Magic Island_. It was a time and a tradition etched into both their brains. Just after 12 o'clock. He had to collect her just after 12 o'clock.

_The house with no curtains.... Sofia would always complain to Michael about how Tony wouldn't let her buy new curtains for their apartment; claiming the old ones were just fine. A woman's shoe box..._

"Sofia, where is the woman's shoe box?"

"The woman's shoe box is just by the door, Michael. It has a number on it. The number will help you to find your ray gun. You'll be able to find the shoe box, Michael."

He had no idea what that could possibly mean, but he had to entrust that if he went to Tony's, he'd figure it out.

"You can't look too put together when you pick up my dancing shoes, Michael, there are people with shoes that are not as nice as mine and they'll be jealous of them. You are going to be very confused when you get my shoes, Michael. You do not know why I forgot them. You are not going there to pick up my shoes, Michael, you are going there to ask where my shoes are."

_Blend in. Don't look like you're there on business. Act like you have no idea I've moved out. Pretend you're there to tell me Papa got hit._

"Michael, I am very, very hungry, but I'm tired of Italian food. Please bring some potatoes with sauerkreut."

_Potatoes and sauerkreut... Irish Kreut. Irish-German. Tom. She wants me to bring Tom. Why does she want me to bring Tom?_

"Why potatoes and sauerkreut, Sofia? Couldn't I just bring you to your dance lessons without potatoes?"

"No. It has to be with the potatoes, Michael. If you bring some of Mama's cooking, it wouldn't be wise. Everyone here has tried her recipes before. There most be both items, Michael. Potatoes and sauerkreut. There has to be those two, or else the woman's shoebox won't have the number on it."

He eyed Tom, who pulled a notebook out of his pocket and began scrawling out her deciphered instructions.

"Alright, Sofia," Michael finally responded. "I will bring you your shoes from the woman's box in the apartment with no curtains, and I will have potatoes and sauerkreut with me. I will bring them to you just after Magic Island. If I do all of those things, will I be able to have my ray gun back?"

There was a short pause. More baby babbling. "Michael, you cannot tell people why you're bringing me my dancing shoes and potatoes and sauerkraut. Only the best of people can know. When I called you, I had heard about the man in the bed because someone inside your castle gave big tickles his phone number. Big tickles are inside the castle. Big tickles."

_Big tickles. Big tickles. Tickles. Tickles... BT..._

Bruno Tattaglia.

A mole. There was a mole in the house, the Corleone castle as Sofia always called it, and they had caused Papa's assassination attempt.

"Sofia, who are the best of people?"

_Who can know?_

She paused briefly. "On second thought, Michael, after you bring me to my dance lesson, fettucine alfredo sounds great."

_Fredo._

"Is it supposed to be sunny outside tomorrow? I'd heard it was going to rain."

_Sonny._

"I don't think it's going to rain, Sofia. Did you hear anything else about the weather?"

"Nothing that's worth mentioning about the weather. Do you still like clementines, Michael?"

_Clemenza._

"Yes, I do like clementines. Should we have clementines after your lessons?"

"Yes, Michael, and you should buy all these things beforehand. One more very good story... do you remember how we used to eat caramel on our ice cream? We would pour caramel all over our sundaes. You don't know how much I need caramel to enjoy my ice cream. We should have caramel, too."

_Caramel.... Carmela? Mama?_

"Should caramel come before or after your lesson, Sofia?"

"It needs to come before, Michael. There is something really special about caramel. Caramel, fettuccine alfredo, potatoes, clementines, all while it's sunny outside are the only things we need for a very good time. And one last thing before you get ready to bring me my shoes, Michael. The most important part of all. Are you listening to me, Michael?"

"I'm listening to you. Is there another thing I should know about your shoes?"

"Not the shoes, Michael. The man in the bed. The man in the bed, Michael. What happened in the street will surely happen again if you do not go to him soon."

_The man in the bed._

Papa.

_What happened in the street will surely happen again._

Another hit on Papa.

"I had heard the man in the bed was being well looked after."

"Michael, the pigs are being tickled. Pigs. Do you remember as a teenager how much I used to say I hated pigs?"

Pigs are being tickled.

Police. Tattaglia. Tattaglia had cops under his belt.

_Jesus Christ. How in the hell did she know that?_

Tom was already ready to jump into action. Michael ran a hand through his hair.

"Sofia, can you tell me how the pigs are being tickled?"

"Michael, the pigs ate all of the buttons. There are no buttons left for the man in the bed. You need to give more buttons to the man in the bed or he will not be able to button his suit tomorrow."

Michael looked up at Tom, heart racing. "How much time do we have to bring the man in the bed his buttons, Sofia?"

"There will be _diavolo_ near the man in the bed one hour before Magic Island. The pigs will come back shortly thereafter. You need to protect the buttons from the pigs."

Tom needed no more information. He raced out of the study and into the living room, where Clemenza and his men were stationed.

"Sofia, are you sure that the pigs will eat all the buttons?" Michael asked quietly after a moment of consideration. "How did you learn about the pigs?"

"You will find out how I learned about the pigs when you retrieve my dancing shoes. You should know that I am very, very sorry I did not tell you how I learned about the pigs until now, but if I had, you would not be able to get your ray gun back and the pigs surely would have eaten the man in the bed's buttons."

Michael could not even begin to fathom how she could have learned all of this, but he knew one thing about his sister: she was always right. About anything and everything. "Is there anything else I should know, Sofia, before I bring you your dancing shoes?"

"Yes, Michael. You must gather all of my foods, because those are the only ones that are definitely not spoiled. There is one more food that I know all about, Michael."

"What food is that, Sofia?"

"Have you ever had a turkish delight, Michael?"

Michael froze.

The Turk.

Virgil Sollozzo, the man who had tried to kill his father.

"Yes. I have had a turkish delight before, Sofia."

"Michael, when you learn how I know about the pigs... you will also come to realize how I know about turkish delights. I have many, many important recipes that we can use to make turkish delights. But turkish delights have the ray gun, too, Michael. I need you to bring me my dancing shoes. Please promise me you will bring me my dancing shoes with sauerkreut and potatoes. My Michelangelo painting is going to be buried if you do not bring all of those things and I am very, very afraid."

"I will do all of those things. Don't worry about your ray gun or your painting. I love you very much, Sofia. Thank you for telling me about the pigs."

The monotone voice, the _code_ voice she had been wearing this entire conversation, finally disintegrated. "You're welcome, big brother. I love you. The man in the bed will be okay."

____________________________________

**May 1944**

Vito Andolini Corleone sat on the sofa, pipe still in hand, and tried to process what had just happened.

Though he would never admit it to anyone, Sofia was his favorite of his children. Not the one he loved the most, but the one he favored the most. And he was proud of the closeness that he believed he'd curated with his daughter.

"I've had sex more than once and I like it."

That sentence played in his head over and over again. She had said it so spitefully, so matter-of-factly.

"Fucked me in his parents' Mick bed."

An Irish man. His daughter had slept with an Irish man. And Vito could not fathom how he'd let it happen.

He knew he needed to talk to her, but he was dreading it. She'd seemed so convinced that he wanted to beat her for telling him all of that; wanted to beat the purity back into her. And he wanted to do no such thing. He could never lay a hand on his daughter; never. He could not hurt her, not after all of that.

Someone had hurt his daughter. Vito was sure that someone had hurt her, and he had to say just the right thing to figure out who and why and what and when.

He had been sitting down here mindlessly for far too long. His daughter was crying upstairs, and he couldn't stand that knowledge. And he knew he was only going to make it worse before it got better. But he had to watch her cry. Had to make her angry and heartbroken for now so that he could understand.

Vito stood from his seat, blew the ash out of his pipe, and slowly made his way up the stairs and to his daughter's room. He knocked three times, his chest clenched and his upper lip stiff.

_"Piccola?"_ he called out to her. From inside, he could hear the whispers of Santino and his daughter, which he found to be oddly endearing. He was consoling his sister. And he knew that if Michael or Fredo or Tom were here, they would be at her side, too.

"Come in, Pop," Sonny called out to him, and Vito turned the doorknob and trudged inside.

The two of them were seated on his daughter's bed, and Sonny looked about as grim as did his sister. What in the world had she told him?

Vito knew his eldest son was not nearly as strict or traditional as he was. He knew that Santino had affairs, and that he had a vulgar mouth and a vulgar attitude about sex. He'd scolded him for it before, but at the end of the day, what his son did was his own business. Something he could not change now that he'd moved out of the house.

Sofia stared at Vito with woeful eyes, and his suspicions were confirmed then and there: that she had not only been asking her father for permission to go to the dance with this boy, but for permission to marry him.

"Sofia, could I speak to you alone for a minute?"

She sniffled, narrowing her eyes at him defiantly. "About what, Papa? The mick? I'll give you his name again if you want, is Clemenza waiting for your word downstairs? James... I think it was Owen? James Owen McPherson, yes, that's M-C-P-H-E-R-S-O-N. Anything else you want clarification on? Positions, locations--"

"Sofia," he cut her off through gritted teeth. Beside her, Sonny was doing his best not to laugh. "I know that you're angry with me, but we need to have a discussion about what you just told me and--"

"Angry? Whatever gave you that impression, Papa? I'm not angry. I'm more so..." She pursed her lips in mock contemplation, wiping at her tear stained cheeks. "Frustrated. Both sexually and non sexually, but mostly non sexually."

He gave up trying to win over any amount of respect from her before entering this conversation. "Santino, could you step out, please? I need to talk to my daughter alone. Sofia, there is no need to make this any harder on yourself by further disrespecting me." And Sonny patted his sister's head and kissed her cheek, rose from his seat, and exited the room without making eye contact with Vito. He was angry with him, too.

After a moment of silence, Vito slowly made his way towards his daughter's bed and plopped down beside her. Her fists were clenched. She was furious with him. _"Piccola..."_ He began, scanning her shaky figure with a deep sigh. "Please let me start off by saying that I have a very deep respect for you. You aren't like any other woman I've met before. You are incredibly gifted, incredibly smart. Firey. That is the way God made you, and I can honestly say that until now, never once have I ever been disappointed in you. But you... tonight, have made me think very differently of you. You have made me think lower of you. And I do not like to think low of my children. I don't think that you have ruined my pride in you, but you have tainted it." He paused, staring at her despondently. "Why do you think, Sofia, that you told me tonight that you aren't a virgin?"

She closed her eyes, running a hand through her perfectly rolled hair and carefully considering her choice of words. "Because I'm tired of lying to you. I'm tired of lying to you about what you see as a virtue of mine." There was another short period of silence. He could tell she was trying to keep herself from crying again. Vito didn't think he'd ever seen her cry this much, not since she was a toddler. "I am not any less smart because I'm not a virgin. I'm not any less practical or tactful or diligent or smart because I'm not a virgin. I am still me. Still the same Sofia who you had dinner with this evening, the same Sofia who can always make you laugh, the same Sofia who makes you proud everyday. That is still me. The only reason that you care that I'm not a virgin is because you don't think that girls should be allowed to enjoy themselves sexually, and that their worth is determined by how devoted to chastity and their husbands that they are, which is your own prerogative. One I can't change. But I will point out to you never would have known I was a virgin had I not told you, because it doesn't change the way I act or feel or speak to you. And in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn't matter all that much."

He took in all of that in silence, allowing her to speak her mind as he always did. She had lowered her voice. She was no longer speaking to him with hate in her eyes, more so defeat. Which hurt him in a way. "That is where you are wrong, Sofia. It does matter. It matters a lot. If you give yourself away before marriage, it shows me that you do not value yourself or your future, it shows me that you lack confidence... women who sleep around before they are married need validation. You are seeking out validation in men to keep them around you, who you just claimed to hate, and that leaves me wondering why you do not--"

"When I've had sex, it was not to seek out validation in men, or to boost my confidence, it was for the experience and the pleasure!" She exclaimed, finally turning towards him and daring to look him in the eye. "Same damn reason any man has sex with a woman. Pleasure. And if that makes you uncomfortable, then I'm sorry, Dad, but I am going to be completely honest with you here. I do not lack confidence. I do not need any man to boost my confidence. Virginity does not matter to me and it doesn't matter to Luke, but you don't care about either one of our feelings, so I guess there was no point in bringing that up!"

He swallowed the lump that had settled into his throat, shifting around atop the bed and clearing his throat before responding to that. "You're right. That does make me uncomfortable. But I appreciate that you're trying to afford me honesty. Sofia... you are wrong in your assumption that I do not care about your feelings. I deeply care about your feelings, and I hate hurting you, but you must understand that sometimes I do the things that I do so that you'll end up alright in the end. That's my job, _piccola_. That is my job and it will be until the day that I die. I raised you to be a good, virtuous Catholic woman. And what you've told me tonight makes me realize that I've been far too lenient with you, I have let you do too much, I have turned my back on you--"

"Papa," she interrupted him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and again turning away from him. "Did you raise Michael and Fredo and Sonny and Tom up to be good, virtuous Catholic men? Because if so, you have done a terrible, terrible job. I mean, Sonny's got three affairs going that I know of right now, Michael didn't save himself for marriage and I'll tell you that much, and neither has Fredo and neither has Tom, and I know all of this because we've talked about sex before--"

"That is different. It is different, Sofia, and I know that you know what I mean when I say that--"

_"How?"_ She pressed. "How the hell is it different? Are we going off the Bible here? The Bible mentions about a dozen times the concept of sexual immorality. Sexual immorality, though, is never defined. It says in several places that... that God doesn't like sexual immorality, but it doesn't say whether that's premarital sex, or certain sexual acts, or thinking about sex too much, or rape... the only time the Bible really says that we shouldn't have sex before marriage is in Hebrews, I think the verse goes something like... "Marriage is honorable among all, and the bed undefiled; but fornicators and adulterers God will judge." It says nothing about that applying more to men or to women, it says nothing about what will happen if you do have sex besides facing judgement, it says nowhere--"

"Sofia, I... regardless of what the Bible says, the Church says it's wrong. Your priest says it's wrong--"

"Wrong. Father Frances has never once talked about sex, and I go to mass every single Sunday. More than you do."

"The Church says it's wrong--"

"The Catholic Church also says murder is wrong, and that gambling is wrong. But sure, let's care more about who's fucking who then taking people's lives."

He paused at that, pursing his lips and wondering what in the world he could say to respond to that. She was right and she knew that she was. "Please don't curse at me, _piccola._ I'm only trying to help you."

She sniffled in response to that. "Fine. I'm sorry. No more cursing. Oh.. speaking of cursing, Papa, have you ever heard the story of Jesus cursing the fig tree?"

He narrowed his eyes for a moment in confusion and surprise, scanning her for a brief moment to see if she was being serious before responding. "No. No, Sofia, I have not."

"I busted out laughing when I read it. It's in Matthew, it's supposed to be one of the miracles of Christ... He's walking with the disciples on a mountain, and he sees a fig tree, and he's hungry so he goes to the fig tree to eat a fig, I guess. But there's no figs on it. And Jesus gets really mad, and he says, 'May you never bear fruit again!', and the tree withers up immediately and dies. He killed the tree with the power of God because there was no fruit on it when he was hungry, and then he gives a speech to his disciples about the power of God compelling him," she explained, smiling fondly as she did so.

Vito was silent for a moment, taking the story in with a feeble smile. He had never heard any bit of it before. And he never knew she knew so much about the Bible. "How do you know all about these... Bible verses and stories, _piccola_, where did you read that?"

"I've read the whole Bible, Papa. Honestly, I just wanted to see what I believed and what I didn't. There's some really strange things in there, there's rules about not mixing fabrics in clothes and how women can't braid their hair or wear gold. Rules about how to sell your children as slaves. It says things like.. How if you give birth to a daughter you're impure for sixty six days, how if you disobey God you have to eat the flesh of your sons, how if you curse at your parents you shall be put to death... the Bible condones rape, genocide, slavery, murder of non believers... and it lags a lot in several different places."

_God, what hadn't she read?_

What he had said was true. Vito did respect his daughter. Very, very much. Because she had earned that respect. She was always respectful of him and his opinions. Always a breath of fresh air. She knew a little bit about everything. But there was something very, very wrong here, and that much he needed her to see. And he would have to keep pushing her buttons to gauge more.

_"Piccola,_ you are brilliant. You are very, very smart. But you have to see that my belief that women should save themselves for marriage is not just biblical, but psychological. Women don't see sex the same way men do. For men, sex is something that doesn't require feeling. Men desire sex more than women do, and for women it is something much more meaningful, something very emotional and taxing, and that is not something that should be taken so lightly. It is not..." He paused yet again, trying as best he could to rationalize asking his question. "Why did you have sex? Why did you want to have sex with this... Irish boy?"

She inhaled deeply through her nose, resting the both of her hands on her knees. "I... was very attracted to him, and I wanted to see what it was like, and that's it, honestly. Not much more to it, Dad. I wasn't in love with him. Didn't fall in love with him before, during, or after. In fact, the experience was so unfulfilling to me that I never spoke to him again." Sofia turned to face him again, her expression forlorn and worn down. "Is that what you were expecting me to say, Papa?"

He stayed mum for a moment, realizing yet again that his reasoning was flawed. He had never before been disappointed in his daughter, never even once, and he was realizing now that he needed great justification to be angry with her. And that justification was becoming more and more frayed by the moment. "No. No, it is not what I expected you to say, Sofia. So this... this Trentini boy, he's the one you're in love with?" Vito asked, his throat closing in on itself again. "Do you want to marry him? Is that what you were really asking me tonight?"

"Yes," she responded with no hesitation. "I need to marry Luke. Well... I don't need to, but I want to more than anything in the world. And I'm not a quitter, as you know, and I'll do anything I have to do to marry him. I love him, Papa. I need him. I know that I need him."

He looked into her eyes and he could tell that she was telling him the truth. "Sofia... I cannot let you marry a Northern boy. I cannot. I want you to understand something, and that is... you are my legacy. You are my pride and joy. You are so, so smart. Gifted. And I need for my legacy to be with my people. We are Sicilians. All of your blood, every last drop of it, it is Sicilian. And I want for my grandchildren to be Sicilian, I want you to be with someone who is proud to be Sicilian and proud of your being Sicilian--"

"I know. I know you do," she cut him off once again, and he let her. "I know what it means to you to be a Sicilian. I know how proud you are of your people and heritage and culture. I know you love Sicily, and so do I. So do I. My children will be brought up as Sicilians... Papa, do you really think I would ever let a man tell me I couldn't raise my children a certain way? I gave birth to the damn thing, I'll make it wear a chicken suit if I so please. My children will learn about Sicily's history and they will visit Sicily, they will know their grandfather's story, they will know about how great of a man he is and how great their ancestry is, they will eat Sicilian food and learn to speak Sicilian as well as I do. They will be Sicilians because I want them to be, and Luke already knows that because I've told him that, and he respects that and we will do that when we have kids... Because whether or not you want me to, Papa, I will marry him. I will marry him because I'm not your property. And I may be proud to be a Sicilian, but I'm not traditional. And your blessing would mean the world to me because I love you so, so much. But I need to marry him. To be happy, I can't let go of him."

He was silent after that for a very long moment, and after a time, he took his hand in hers and gave it a tight squeeze. He knew she meant what she was saying. He knew she meant every word of it, and what could he say?

"Sofia, I will consider giving you my blessing. I will consider it very carefully, because I respect you very much, and I respect the fact that you told me all of this, but until you are married, _piccola_..." He knew this part was going to ruin the closeness that he felt to her, and the sense of relief he knew he'd just given her. "You need to understand that I cannot allow you to keep seeing him in the way that you have. Because what you told me about this... this McPherson boy concerns me. It does. That is not normal behavior for a young woman, I don't care what you say. You saying that you hate men because of the way that they've treated you concerns me. And I want you to know that I think there's more to what you've told me, and I want to know what it is."

She swallowed, clearly taken aback. "Papa, I... I don't really hate men, I--"

"Then why would you tell me that you do? You rarely say things you don't mean. You told me you hated men. Why do you hate men, Sofia? Why don't you hate Luke Trentini?" He was sure that he didn't want to hear the answer to the question, but he had to know.

"I hate men because of all the reasons I told you, Papa. And men don't like me. I'm sure you can guess why."

"I like you," he challenged.

"You're my father. You're obligated to like me," Sofia retorted.

"No, I am not obligated to like you, I'm only obligated to love you unconditionally." His grip on her hand tightened. He knew now. He was sure that he knew. "I like you because you are smart, funny, interesting, respectful... you have always been respectful of me. Always. Since you've become a young woman, you have never once mouthed off to me, never once yelled at me or insulted me or acted entitled to anything. Not since you were a small child. Never until tonight, when I told you you couldn't go to a dance with a boy, and I want to know why that upset you so much. Why you cried and then mocked me over and over again. Why did my saying no to Luke Trentini hurt you so much?"

She sniffled again. The tears were threatening to return, and he could tell that she deeply resented it. "I... I love Luke, and I realized that you didn't respect me the way I thought that you did, and I thought that you thought I wasn't... that I wasn't..."

"Sofia, please tell me why you said that you hated men. Please tell me why you wanted me to know that you weren't a virgin." This was painful. Pushing her was painful. "I came up here not to yell at you, not to beat you, not to threaten you, not to throw God in your face... I came up here because I think that you... were hurt by someone. By a man. Your behavior tonight was very abnormal to me, and the things that you've said to me here are concerning to me. Do you understand what I mean when I say that?"

She began bouncing her leg, and biting her lip in order to keep from crying again. Her fingertips were digging into his palm. "In Deuteronomy, it's verses 22:28-29, it says... it says that if a man rapes a virgin, then he has to give her father fifty shekels and then marry her, and he can never divorce her, because um... in biblical times, marriage was seen as a transaction. A woman was her father's property. A man would be damaging another man's property if he raped his daughter. So he is making his amends by paying for her and then marrying her forever. Not for hurting the girl, but for hurting her father's property."

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Vito felt frozen in place. He felt like she'd just knocked the wind out of him. She was trying to keep herself from sobbing, and he released her hand only to pull her gently by the shoulders into his arms. She burrowed her face into his shoulder and threw her arms around him, and he ran his hands through her hair and let her cry. Finally, she allowed herself to bawl, and he felt himself get choked up right along with her.

"You are not... You never have been and you never will be my property. Never. Never, ever... _piccola_, I am not your owner, I'm your father... and I... I am so sorry, I'm so sorry, Sofia, please know that I'm sorry and I will do anything I can, anything to make you know that I--"

"I'm pregnant, Papa. I'm pregnant. And that... that's why I have to marry L-Luke, because... I want my baby to grow up to be a great man like his father, and I have to marry him, you have to let me marry him b-because he's the only thing that makes what happened b-better, Papa, I have to marry him, please tell me I can marry him and that w-we can have a wedding and you... will walk me down the aisle, and you'll be godfather to m-my child, please, Papa, I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry I've... I'm sorry I--"

"Sofia..." He began, and he could feel his stomach drop. He squeezed her petite body and felt tears begin to burn his eyes. "You... _piccola_, tell me what happened, please tell me who... who did it to you, I am sorry that I made you think I didn't want you to be... anything special, you are so special to me, and I love you very very much, and I have hurt you. I need to help you now, Sofia, please tell me what happened to you and we can work through everything else.... Can you tell me? Will you?"

She strengthened her grip around him and shook her head furiously, hysteria overtaking her. His youngest let out an embittered sob, one that shook him to his core, and he had to try his best not to break down, too. "No, no, no, please d-don't... you'll kill him, you'll kill him, and I want to be the one... who makes him suffer, n-not you, not you, Papa, I have a p-plan--"

"Sofia, I will not kill him, we'll handle this together... do you understand me? We'll handle this together, you are my equal right now and we'll handle it together... what is your plan? What is your plan, baby?"

She was by this point hysterical, and he was carefully rocking her like he'd done for her as a baby. He held her upright and he let his child cry. "Isaiah... s-says.... 'Let the w-wicked... let the wicked f-forsake his way, and the un...unrighteous man h-his thoughts... and... and... and l-let him return unto the L-Lord, and he will have... _m-mercy _ upon him... and to our... ou-our God, for... he... he will abundantly p-pardon.'" she stammered.

Vito could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he wanted to do something, anything, to take her pain away. But he knew for the time being that there was nothing he could do, and that was his own fault. "_Piccola,_ I want you to go to sleep. You are exhausted and you need to sleep, and we will talk about this more in the morning. Can I put you to sleep, _piccola?_"

There were several seconds of empty sobbing, but eventually she nodded weakly, and Vito guided her withered, trembling body to lay down and he covered her with the quilt her mother had made for her years ago and leaned down to peck her forehead. "Go to sleep, _mia figlia._ I am so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Papa," Sofia whispered, her sobs already dying down. "Wh... what is your favorite Bible verse? I have... a few... but the best one is... 1 Co-Corinthians 13:4... 'L-Love is... love is p-patient, love... love is kind. It does not en-envy, it... d-does not boast, i-it is not proud. It does... not dis... dishonor others, it is not self... self-seeking, it is n-not easily ang... angered, it k-keeps... it keeps no r-record of wrongs. Love... d-does not delight in evil... but rejoices with the truth,'" she began to lower voice, reaching for her father's hand, which he took in his own. "'It... al-always _protects_... always trusts, al-always hopes, always perseveres. Love... never fails."

Vito did not attempt to hide the tears in his eyes. He studied her face in dismay, relieved that she was at least winding down. "You... that is a very beautiful verse, very beautiful, Sofia. I do not know many Bible verses, to tell you the truth. Only 'the Lord is my shepard', 'thou shalt not kill'... but my favorite Bible story, I think, is the one where Jesus curses the fig tree."

And she managed a weak laugh at that, and he felt himself ease up if only a little. "Go to sleep, Sofia. I will be here when you wake up. I'm not angry with you, not at all. I love you. I love you very much. _Sugnu ccani ora."_

"A salutti!" She responded, and Vito smiled faintly. "I want to teach... you... more about the Bible, Papa... it's the strangest book I've ever read, and I've read... a lot of books."

He remained silent, and eventually, she drifted off. Relief flooded him as soon as it was so. Vito decided that he needed a drink. He pressed a kiss to her palm and released her hand, and then he stood from his place on the bed and wiped at his eyes before heading towards the door. As soon as it creaked open, he saw the figure of his eldest son in the hallway, and he froze.

"Santino, I--"

"It was Trentini," Sonny whispered.

____________________________________

_Tall, and tan, and young, and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking,_

_And when she passes, I smile - but she doesn't see."_

-"The Girl from Ipanema" by Frank Sinatra


	9. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

_"Holy St Genesius,_  
martyr for Christ,  
by the grace of the Holy Spirit  
through your acting  
you came to discover  
the truth of the Christian faith.  
In your first profession of that faith  
you were baptized through the shedding  
of your blood,  
offering your life for the praise and glory  
of our Lord Jesus Christ.  
Pray for those who dedicate their lives  
to the theatrical and cinematic arts.  
Like you may they find the presence  
of the Lord in their work  
and generously open their hearts  
to his teaching,  
living it in the midst of the challenges  
and demands of their calling.  
In this novena, I remember most especially...., commending him/her to your care.  
Amen." 

**-Prayer to Genesius, patron saint of actors.**


	10. She's hysterical... hysterical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: sexual assault; semi graphic descriptions of sexual assault.

**February 7, 1946**

_Dear Ms. Corleone,_

_This letter is to advise you that your admission to the New York University College of Arts & Sciences as a regular student has been approved for the beginning of the Fall 1946 semester on condition that you complete satisfactorily the subjects which you enroll in. You should report to the College for enrollment as directed in the enclosed communication._

_Sincerely Yours,_

_L.D. Young, Registrar_

________________________

_"Know your own strength. If a boy gives your hair ribbon a yank, don't turn around and bop him on the head with an armful of books. He is only teasing you—a peculiar way boys have of showing they like you. Just remember they are queer specimens or homo sapiens and they must be tolerated. There will always be boys, and boys will always be boys."_

-Excerpt; _Future Perfect: A Guide to Personality and Popularity for the Junior Miss_ by Bernice Bryant (1944)

_________________________

**July 1943**

Michael was stuffed. The most American tradition his family indulged in had done his stomach in just as it did every year. He was full of the potluck his family had brought over, to be eaten before they set off fireworks in the open area behind the house. There were ribs, baked beans, cassata, ravioli, sarde e beccafico, funghi, cannoli... Independence Day was one of those days of the year that Michael would eat, and eat, and eat, and eat until he felt as though his stomach were bursting. Aside from the bustling occasion that was always a Corleone family holiday, it was good to be home for the summer. Arguing politics with his sister, being talked down to by Sonny, speaking of his future with his father, and being coddled by his mother-- those were Michael's visits home from college, and he cherished each one of them dearly.

It was now the late evening. After a good while spent sitting in silence while his family chattered around him in the humid July air, the smoky scent of fireworks permeating the patio, Michael had excused himself to flop onto the couch in the vacated parlor and light up a cigarette, letting out a semi-audible moan of discomfort every twenty minutes or so. All of his extended family had slowly been thinning out, and he could hear Sonny say his goodbyes to his mother in the foyer. Finally, the peace and quiet could return.

Just when he was about to finish the last of his cigarette and retire for the evening, he heard footsteps, followed by the sound of someone plopping down in the chair opposite him. Michael sat up, his nausea still having taken a toll on him, relieved to find that his new company was his little sister and not some cousin he hardly knew who wanted to scold him for attending college.

"Hey, Fia. You were awfully quiet at dinner," he observed quietly as his sister made herself comfortable in her seat.

She let out a drained sigh, adjusting her skirt as she crossed her legs the way Mama always scolded her for. "I find that the best way to avoid being incessantly asked when I plan on getting married is to avoid talking to everyone as much as possible."

He let out a snicker at that, taking a thick drag from his cigarette amid a comfortable silence. "You're telling me... five separate people today asked me why on earth I'd want to go to college. You'd think it was a crime to want to go to school."

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nodding solemnly. "I guess I'm finally at the age in every Italian girl's life where everyone decides what my future is. I've got to get down to business, Michael. Searching for a proper Sicilian husband is tricky business."

He glanced at her curiously. She seemed so forlorn. It was out of character for his usually chipper sister. "You've got time, Fia. You haven't even graduated high school yet. You won't be considered an old maid until you're at least twenty. How's that for time?" He teased, offering her a gentle smile.

Sofia sat upright, furrowing her eyebrows in mild frustration. "Michael, I'm being serious. I..." She paused, taking a quick glance around the room in order to make sure there were no eavesdroppers. "Aunt Valentina kept asking me about marriage and finding a husband and getting ready for a family and I wanted to fucking strangle her... I don't wanna get married, Michael. Never. But I can't exactly broadcast that to a room full of guineas."

He stared at her for a moment, taken aback though unsurprised at the definitive nature of her words. "Oh, c'mon, Fia, be serious... you want to get married. Last month, you talked about wanting to be Cary Grant's wife for a good ten minutes."

She began toying with the yellow ribbon in her hair, eyes on the ground as she bit the inside of her cheek. Something was bothering her. She'd been off since he'd gotten home. She'd seemed distant and winded. Papa had even made a comment about her withdrawn behavior in passing earlier today. But Michael figured it was just a teenage girl facing teenage girl emotions. She would bounce back, just like she always did.

"Well, I've changed my mind. I'm sure Cary Grant's a fucking asshole, Michael. He's... only acting like a gentleman on the screen, even if he's handsome."

"Cary Grant's an actor, they're all born narcissists," he quipped dryly, leaning over slightly to ash his cigarette. "Where's all this coming from, anyway? Some fella break things off with you? You'll meet someone else, little sister." His tone was teasing though serious all at the same time. He could tell she was hurting. But knowing her, she'd get over it in a week and have a new boyfriend stashed away in no time.

"Nobody broke it off with me, I just... " She still wasn't making eye contact with him, and that was when his flippancy turned to slight worry. Normally, Sofia would be armed and ready with a stellar comeback and they'd be playfully bickering already. "I just realized what men are really about, that's all."

His mind went reeling trying to figure out what that could possibly mean. Michael's feet found their way to the carpet, and he hoisted himself upright in order to give her his full attention. "What does that mean, Sofia? What do you mean, 'what men are really about'?"

And finally, she looked him dead in the eye, and he made note of how damned beaten down she looked. Something had happened. Something bad.

The youngest Corleone scanned her brother several times over. Her mouth began to form words a few times, but each time, she pulled them back into her mouth. He could tell she wanted him to know something, but she was very afraid to say what it was. "I... I just went over to..." She paused. All at once, her mouth clamped shut and her expression seemed to close itself off. Sofia's body stiffened, and she returned her gaze to the floor. "Nevermind. You don't want to hear about silly... bobby soxer drama, Michael. I'm gonna be just fine. I'm being silly. That's what this is... just silliness. My own damn fault." She began to fidget her right leg somewhat neurotically, and Michael's concern only worsened.

"Fia, what's on your mind?" The collegiate coaxed her gently. "You know you can tell me anything. You don't get worked up over nothing. You never have. If somebody upset you enough to swear off marriage altogether, then I'm sure it was something terrible."

She considered her brother's words for a long moment, her saddle shoe bouncing rhythmically on the Oriental rug Papa had only recently picked up. All that filled the room for a long moment was their steady breathing, along with the distant sound of Carmela conversing with her sister a a few rooms over.

"Michael, I really screwed up, and...," she finally whispered. "And... it's just been so hard to go back to normal ever since I screwed up... with a boy, I screwed up with a boy. A stupid fucking Northern boy. But I... I'm going to make amends. I think I can do that, but I never, ever want to even think about... being with another boy as long as I live, it was bad. It was bad, Mikey. I can't stop thinking about it, but thinking about it makes me want to throw up. And so... I've been... thinking about what I want to do after high school instead of get married. I actually came in here to ask you if..." She looked up once more, though her eyes were planted on the painting behind him. "Michael, do you think Papa would let me go to Hollywood? Let me try to make it as an actress after I graduate? I came up with that as an option. And the other one is becoming one of those piano players at department stores, and the other one is becoming a nun, and the other one is just hanging myself once and for all."

Michael was silent for a long moment. He was stunned. And he didn't know where to begin in his questioning following all of that. He took a deep breath, contemplating what to say to her as carefully as possible. "Sofia... what happened? How did you screw up? Did you... Did you get into a fight with your boyfriend? If that's all it was then I'm sure it's--"

"Yes, I got into a fight with my boyfriend, Michael!" She suddenly shrieked, which startled him to say the very least. "I got into a fight with my boyfriend because he tried to tell me I couldn't talk to other boys, and I yelled at him and I called him names and I told him he was a fucking narcissistic piece of shit, and then he f---" She paused, her voice shaky and panicked, and her face found its way to the safety of her palms. Now Michael could no longer see her face, and all the food in his stomach was beginning to churn.

The silence was deafening. Michael's head was going in a hundred different directions. He had to know. God knows he was already prepared for the worst. "...And then he what? What did he do, Fia?" He pressed her gently.

"He f..." She inhaled through her nose so loudly that he could hear it, muffled by the flesh on her hands. "He fucked me, he p-pushed me on the bed and fucked me and I'm... so tired of thinking about it, I'm so tired of thinking about it, Michael, it hurt so fucking bad... it hurt so fucking bad and I can't tell... anyone because they'll say it happened because of... because I'm such a bitch, and b-because I sl... I should've been... I should've known... and I d-don't want to get married, how am I supposed to get married now? What am I supposed to do? I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do, I... think I'm fine dying an old maid, honestly, but I'm tired of... Mama and Papa and Aunt Valentina and cousin Ellen and all my stupid fucking friends talking about marriage when I'd rather kick the fucking bucket then touch a man with a ten foot fucking pole for the rest of my life..." She recanted to him frantically. Her voice was so weak. So winded and tired and hopeless.

Michael was speechless. He had no idea what to say, and so for a long moment he said nothing. He got to his feet and reached for his sister's hands and pulled her into his arms. She clung to him with gratitude as his hands gently grazed her back.

They stood together wordlessly for awhile, and Sofia's labored breathing was all that filled Michael's ears while he gathered his thoughts. He knew where to start. It was only the delivery he was worried about. The elder sibling lowered his voice to beneath a whisper, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Fia... you have to tell Mama and Papa. You need to tell them what happened, they'll--"

"No," she shot back quickly, her voice monotone and frighteningly decisive. "No, no, I will not tell them, I have... I have to gather my thoughts, I haven't decided what to do yet, and Papa will kill me if he finds out I was going steady with a Northerner, Michael, I--"

"Sofia, that's... no, you've got to tell them, Papa will forgive you and he'll help you bring that boy to justice. You didn't do anything wrong, kid..." He gingerly pulled the two of them apart, staring at her with gentle conviction as he gripped her tiny shoulders. She was so goddamned small. It was easy to forget how short she was sometimes because of how firey she was as a person. "You didn't do anything wrong, you didn't... it wasn't your fault, it's not your fault that he... you were raped, Sofia, that was rape, and if you don't tell our parents then I will, because--"

"You cannot tell Papa. You cannot tell him, you can't tell him because I'm not ready to tell him, I'm not ready to disappoint him, I can't disappoint our father like that--"

"He will not be disappointed in you, he won't be... you can't go on like this forever, Fia, you can't tell him that you don't want to get married with no explanation, you've got to tell your father that you were raped--"

"I was not raped, Michael, stop fucking calling it that," she hissed. "Rape is... rape is something evil, rape happens in alleyways with strangers, rape happens to weak women who can't defend themselves and I'm not fucking weak, I fought. I fought, and I hurt him, I am a fighter and I--"

"Sofia..." Michael said gently, pulling her back into his embrace. "If you fought... if you fought a man off and he forced you to have sex with him then that's rape. That's rape, and it doesn't make you weak. You are not weak, you're a firecracker and a force to be reckoned with, but you weren't as physically strong as him and he took advantage of that, and that is rape...."

She nosed herself into the safety of his shoulder and squeezed his torso has hard as she could. He could tell she was biting back tears with everything she had and it pained him. "Mikey, I... can't tell Papa, please don't tell him, I'm begging you not to tell him, he'll make me say who it was and he'll kill him--"

"He deserves to die for what he did to you. He deserves to die for what he did to you, Fia, I won't tell him right away, but you have to tell him. You've got to. You won't feel as alone, and he can help you decide what to do after you finish school... he's worried about you, he told me that this morning and I told him I'd talk to you and I--"

"I have a plan, Michael. I'm making a p-plan."

He paused, narrowing his eyes in confusion and tightening his grip around her. "You have a _what?"_

"I have a plan. I'm going... to get even with him... I'm going to get even with that WOP bastard and I... can't let Papa ruin my plan."

________________________________________

_"Alas, alas that ever I was born:_  
I have deserved the anger of God  
who gave me soul and body —  
alas, most wretched woman that I am!  
Alas, alas that ever I was born,  
now that God's anger awakens me!  
Courage, good men and women all:  
God wants to guide body and soul." 

-Mary Magdalene, _Ludus breviter de Passione_

_______________________________________

**November 1945**

Sofia was suffering. All that Vito knew was that his daughter was suffering very, very much. Last night, shortly before Tom arrived at the hospital with Sofia, Michael had told his father the extent of her troubles in the week since she'd called for help for the first time in well over a year.

She refused to let baby Michael out of her sight. She had screamed at her mother for telling her to get some rest; that she would watch the baby while Sofia slept. She never wanted to go to bed. She would sit on the sun porch all day and night with cigarettes and wine. Glass after glass of wine. And the most disturbing bit of it all to both him and his son was her Bible. Sofia would sit with the tattered Bible she'd received for her confirmation and a notepad, writing verse after verse and note after note. That is how she would spend her days when she was not with he and Tom and Michael, meticulously planning out their plot to keep the family war at bay: watching her son with a hawk's eye and studying her Bible, drunk out of her mind.

Michael had tried his best to confront her. Vito knew how much Sofia revered her older brother. They were two years apart and had become close friends by the time they'd reached teenagehood, and Michael had been the only one of the Corleone men that she'd retained contact with after leaving home. Vito couldn't say he blamed her. Not after what his mistake had done to her.

But try as he might, Michael could not reach her. She would never directly answer his questions. She would not tell him what was wrong. She would not speak to him the way that she had before it had all happened. Sofia no longer fully trusted Michael, or her mother, or her other brothers. She was only half way functional when she came to Vito's hospital room and meticulously plotted with he and her brothers. He could not execute this properly without his daughter, and he knew that. But how could he ask for her full compliance after all she had gone through? After all she was suffering through in silence?

Today, she was seated at his bedside with Michael in the seat in the corner. Business could be discussed later. Now it was time to try and reach her. Even though Vito could not talk, he knew that he could communicate his concern for his daughter with the help of Michael and the chalkboard slate that Tom had thought to bring him.

They were playing tic tac toe with the chalk in near silence. Vito could tell by her crude movements and lack of concentration, and the lidded expression in her eyes that she was tipsy. It hurt his heart. He would give anything to ask her in his own voice, which she had not heard now since June of the previous year, what he could do to make things better. What on earth she had gone through. Why on earth she had endured it for him.

"Papa," she slurred subtly after a few minutes of silence. "I'm not so good at this game right now. I'm tired. Do you want to play a round with Michael?"

He stared at her for a moment. Now was his chance. Now was his time to ask his questions. Gauge all that was wrong from her slowly and gently. All he had to communicate with her was a piece of chalk and the calm expression in his eyes.

He erased the game they'd been playing, which he was a turn away from winning, with his index finger. The ghost white film it left on his hands reminded him of his time as a little schoolboy. He felt like a school boy. Mute and nervous and helpless just as he'd been as a small child.

Carefully, Vito scrawled out his response after a moment of thought.

_"Did you sleep last night?"_

Her eyes scanned the tablet, and after furrowing her eyebrows in thought, she slowly shook her head. "No. I... I've been having trouble sleeping, Papa. It feels very strange to be back at home," she explained to him in a whisper. "But I'm trying. To go back to normal for my son."

He nodded in understanding. From behind his daughter, he could hear Michael setting aside his newspaper and sitting up to pay attention to the conversation at hand. Vito only had to open her up. Then, Michael could take over. They had discussed it at length the night before; he, Tom, and Michael.

He again erased his message, mulling over his response for only a moment.

_"Is there anything we can do to help?"_

She bit her lip in contemplation, again giving him a quick shake of the head. "No, Papa. I'm okay, I promise. I just need some time."

He stared at the sadness that seemed to fill her eyes all the time and cursed Tattaglia for... everything all over again as he wrote out another reply.

This time, he decided to be more direct.

_"Michael told me about Bible and wine. Why are you drinking so much?"_

Sofia scowled, turning towards her brother with an indignant snarl and semi-aggressively shaking her head. "You just have to give me time. Both of you just need to be patient with me. I'm not a drunk and I'm not crazy, so just give me some time."

Michael finally spoke up. Vito breathed a sigh of relief. "We never said you were either of those things. I'm just worried about you and I told Papa that. You drink a lot, you don't eat or sleep, you don't let the baby out of your sight, and you're never without your Bible. We want to help you feel better, Fia. After all you have done to help your family, we want to help you to--"

"I do not need you to--"

"You've been all on your own for a year, I know, Sofia," he began, standing from his seat and dragging his chair towards hers. He rested it directly beside hers and plopped down, eyeing her with the utmost gentleness in his eyes. "You've been on your own, you've been around very evil men who have hurt you, and we.... all of us, not just me and Papa... we just want you to know that if you want to talk about it, you can. All of the things you went through while you were gone can't go away with wine and no sleep. We aren't going to judge you, we aren't going to look down on you, we aren't going to think you're weak for telling us you need our help. So can you tell me, or tell Papa while I step out of the room, or tell us both what's been on your mind? Please, Sofia. Just tell us what's been driving you to drink so much at the very least."

She closed her eyes, her chin lilting towards her lap as she considered his words. Sofia folded her hands and set them in her lap, tapping her foot rhythmically. That was a habit she'd taken up in her childhood that Vito had noticed she'd started up again since she'd come home.

There was a good ten seconds of silence. Vito could hear his own heart thumping. Finally, she swallowed audibly and opened her mouth with a visible reluctance. "Would you go out in the hall? Could I talk to Papa alone?"

Michael almost immediately rose to his feet, pecking her cheek and turning to go. "Of course. I'll get you a soda pop while I'm gone. Just come and get me when you're ready."

She nodded timidly and waited until the door had closed behind her brother before opening her mouth. Though she would not make eye contact with him, Vito knew she was gritting through this with everything she had.

"Papa..." She began, running a hand through her mussed up hair. Her father took note of how frail and meek she looked then and there. She was bone thin. He could swear he could detect a tremble in her hands even from his bed. "I... cannot go to sleep. I dread going to sleep because I have horrible, horrible nightmares, and I think that with time those will get better, but I see... horrible things when I go to sleep and the wine is all that helps with that. I just need time. I promise that's all I need."

She finally looked up at him, still biting her chapped lower lip. He quickly scrawled out his response.

_"What are nightmares about? Please tell me. Very worried."_

She scanned his wobbly letters and let out a winded sigh. There was more silence between them. Vito felt his heave a little in relief every time she opened her mouth to speak, he quickly realized. "Papa... I... have you ever heard the story of Bathsheba and King David?"

He simply shook his head, grateful he was at least getting somewhere with her.

Sofia brought her hands to her mouth and began gnawing at the nail on her thumb, keeping her eyes on the wall behind him. "I can't stop reading that fucking story, Papa. It's in 2 Samuel. Bathsheba... she was the wife of Uriah, he was a warrior for the Isrealite army. And David saw Bathsheba and thought her to be beautiful, so he called on her to lay with him and she had to because he was the king, and then she became pregnant with his child. So David sent Uriah to die in battle so that he could marry her, and once he married her, the prophet Nathan told him he'd... that God..." she paused, clenching her fingertips into her palms with great intensity. "God would make David pay for his sins by way of killing Bathsheba's son. And... he did, Papa, God killed... Bathsheba's infant son, her bastard child... and... it wasn't her or David he killed, he killed the baby, and I don't know why... I don't know why he would do that, he was just a baby, and I can't stop wondering i-if that means the baby would be forsaken to Hell, if that means that bastard children go to Hell or if they're just forsaken, or if the punishment was for killing Uriah, I can't decide because it doesn't make it clear, and I can't sleep... because she couldn't protect him from... dying, and it doesn't say how he killed the baby but I... want to know, I want to know, and it... keeps me awake, and that's... what's bothering me the most, Papa, I just don't know. I don't know."

Vito stared at her in surprise and deep concern for a good while. This time, the silence was on his end. He did not know where to begin. He did not know his daughter to be a worrier, or a dweller, and he did not know her to be religious or God fearing. She had changed so much in so many ways, and none of the changes he could see were for the better.

Slowly, he scrawled out his reply through her hiked breathing in tiny letters.

_"Your son is safe. Always. God won't forsake your child. Do you drink to calm your fears?"_

She considered her response for several seconds.

"I... drink.... Wine... because I like wine, because I like how it can make my brain stop. Time goes by slower with the wine, and b-baby Michael seems safer when I drink wine, and I feel warmer and safer when I drink wine. The Bible... the Bible mentions wine a lot, but no other specific forms of alcohol. Nine times. It... discourages getting drunk, so I try not to get drunk, I try not to get drunk. I just drink enough to feel safer, Papa, I'm not a drunk."

Vito's chest was pounding now. He felt breathless. She was losing it and she did not even realize it. He was hesitant to write what came next, but it had to be said. She had to understand.

_"Not normal. Should not drink to feel safe. You are okay, we are keeping you safe. You prayed for forgiveness and went to confession. Not going to hell. Stop drinking now or you will become a drunk."_

Sofia milled over those words several times. He could see her eyes dancing over the board repeatedly. She wanted very badly to believe it; this he could tell. "Papa..." She began again, an audible trepidation in her voice. "I... can't stop reading the Bible and learning the verses. I don't know what's wrong with me, I d-don't know why, whenever I stop I feel like I'm sinning, I feel like I'm paying for what I did when I read it and... and I'm keeping Mikey safe, and... and when I don't read it as much and I g-go to sleep... the nightmares get worse, and I dream of him dying and I dr-dream of guns going off and I... dream about Virgil and... him choking me, I dr-dream about blood and bodies, and I swear... I know... I know it sounds crazy but I swear that it's God. I can't stop, I can't stop reading the Bible or the dreams are so much worse, the dreams are his punishment and I don't know what else to do but keep writing, I don't know how to stop, Papa, I don't know when it will be e-enough..." Tears began to stream down her cheeks.

Vito was stunned. He could not believe his ears. He wished with every fiber of his being that he could talk to her. He was biting back his own tears as he wrote out his response to her... delusions. She was delusional. His brilliant, spunky, kind, inventive daughter who had saved his life and was helping him take down the man she had belonged to for a year now was delusional.

_"Piccola. You're not being punished. Dreams are your brain and not God. Need to get your brother. Bring me Michael please."_

She was now bawling, a sight which always pained him but now felt like agony. The sound of her cries filled his ears as she shook her head, clear torment in her gaze. "No! No, I don't want... no, pl-please don't make me tell Michael, I don't want to t-tell... You think i'm crazy! Y-you think I'm crazy! Please... please b-believe me, Papa, please... I'm... not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not! I don't want my s-son to die,I don't want my son to die!"

Vito shook his head at that, wishing with all of his might that he could shush his child and nose into her hair and kiss her forehead and numb her pain. But he couldn't. He was bedridden and near useless. Wordlessly, he reached for her hand and gave it a tight squeeze of reassurance, his eyes pleading with her.

They stared at each other for a long and tender moment. This was the first time, he realized, that he'd been alone with her in over a year. And he had to help her. It was more vital now than ever. He had failed the first time in trying to help her. Failed miserably and cost her entire livelihood, and another man's life. He had failed her and he wasn't about to do it again.

Finally, Vito released his hand and again reached for the chalk and board, quickly writing out his chosen words.

_"Not crazy. Very afraid because of VS and BT. Not your fault. NOT CRAZY. Have to help my baby. Need Michael's help. Bring Michael."_

She was silent for a moment. Her tears became more intense, and her breathing more labored and afraid. But finally, Sofia nodded. She stood from her seat and practically tiptoed to the door, quickly wiping at her eyes and opening the door to call out to her brother. She attempted abysmally to conceal her hysteria amid the two armed guards that were constantly stationed at Vito's door.

A moment later, Coca-Cola in hand, Michael strode through the door and put an arm around his sobbing sister, leading her back to their father's bedside.

"What is it, Fia?" He whispered gently, and Vito could detect the guilt that racked his voice. Their father quickly wrote out his command, the chalk noisily squeaking in the echoey room as his daughter slowly slipped into hysteria. She was clinging to her brother semi-desperately. He did not at all seemed surprised, and that pained Vito even more.

"Ask her about Bathsheba," the board read.

"Sofia," Michael said with no hesitation. "Who is Bathsheba?"

At the question, deep shame in her eyes, she sobbed plainly for a long moment, clinging to the fabric of his cotton shirt. "Sh-she... God... killed her son b-because she... got... a man... David made her sleep with h-him and he... g-got her pregnant and she... had a husband... and... God killed her baby and he w-wants... me to know that he w-wants to kill mine, he wants to kill mine, he w-wants to kill my son, Michael, please... please.... please don't make me stop, pl-please don't make me stop." The sounds that escaped her withered body sounded like that of a battered lamb. She was sobbing so loudly and so hysterically that it hurt Vito's ears and his heart.

Michael looked more shocked and hurt than Vito had ever seen him look in his life. "Stop what? What does Papa want you to stop?"

"Writing... reading my Bible, reading my Bible, Michael, when I stop them he sh-shows me my baby dying. And he sh-shows me my death, and he's... it's a w-warning, it's a warning, it's a w-warning, Michael, I d-don't want my son to die, I already k-killed somebody else, I'm a fucking s-sinner and _I don't want my son to die_," She damn near screamed, and Michael tightened his grip around her tiny build.

He shushed her, gently rocking her against him. "Nobody.... Nobody's going to die, Sofia, your son is not going to die. Your son is not going to die, your dreams are your mind playing tricks on you. You are not going to die, Sofia. Please try to calm down, take a deep breath--"

"--I wanna go _h-home_, Michael, I wanna go home, I wanna go home, Mama d-doesn't know, Mama doesn't know, I wanna be with him, I want to be with my son," she whined deliriously. It was difficult to understand her by this point.

"Your son is safe, Sofia. He's safe with our mother, he is not going to die and you being away from him won't change that. Let's sit down, Fia. Let's go sit down." And with that, he led her to the chair she'd just been seated in and guided her to a sitting position. She leaned over the bedsheets and squeezed the metal armrests with all of her might, sobbing hysterically. Vito immediately began to run his hands through her hair as Michael stepped towards the door and leaned out to demand that one of the button men retrieve a doctor. He was going to ask him to sedate her; Vito already knew.

With his free hand, the father of five hastily scrawled out a final message to his son.

_"Her Bible in purse. Read Matthew 18:2 before falls asleep."_

____________________

_"[Jesus] called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me."_

-Matthew 18:2-6

_____________________

**April 1944**

"Papa! Papa! Guess what?" Sofia called out to her father, the glee oozing from her voice evident even from the hallway.

She came bursting into Vito's study, school books in hand, with a light in her eyes he only saw when she was thrilled beyond belief.

Vito already knew what she was going to tell him before she spoke, but he indulged her nonetheless. "What? What is it?" He asked her, setting aside his papers and rising to his feet from behind his desk.

She bit her lip and pulled her books closer to her chest with a childlike stare of excitement. "I got the lead in the school play! I'm Ophelia in Hamlet, Papa, I almost cried when they posted the cast list..."

Vito's heart soared with pride right alongside hers, and he approached her with a grin, meeting her halfway for an affectionate hug. "Oh, that's wonderful, _tesora_. I am so proud of you... have you told your mother yet?"

She pulled away from him after a moment, tucking a strand of her dark locks behind her ear. Sofia was still grinning. He could not help but beam right along with her. "No, no, I had to tell you first because you were the one who told me to audition in the first place."

"Well, go and tell her now. And tell Fredo, too, he just got home. I'm sure he'll be very happy for you."

She nodded, toying with the hem of her bright yellow skirt and tapping on the binding of her books with her opposite hand. "Papa, do you think Sonny's capable of sitting through two and a half hours or so of Shakespeare?"

Vito let out a small chortle, offering her a small shrug. "Your brother won't be able to understand a word of it... Neither will I, truth be told, but _piccola_... Santino would do anything for his family; his baby sister. Even sit through gibberish for her."

________________________

_"O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!_  
The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword,  
Th' expectancy and rose of the fair state,  
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,  
Th' observ'd of all observers- quite, quite down!  
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,  
That suck'd the honey of his music vows,  
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,  
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;  
That unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth  
Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me  
T' have seen what I have seen, see what I see!" 

_-Ophelia, Hamlet Act III Scene i_


	11. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

_"Most loving God, you know the pain and sorrow of death; mercifully hear our prayer for those who mourn the death of their beloved. The nights are lonely and the days are too long. Comfort them and bring an end to the days of tears. Bless them and bring an end to their days of sorrow. Renew them with the joy of life and bring to an end their days of mourning. Let the bond of love which you have for your people be the foundation of their hope that love never ends and that precious moments with our beloved are forever held dear in our hearts. _

_Amen."_

**-Catholic prayer for grieving widows.**


	12. Blood is Expensive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains some mentions of sexual assault, but nothing exceptionally graphic or upsetting.

**February 1944**

_"...ma liberaci dal male. Amen,"_ Tom concluded the Lord's prayer in Italian, amid the sound of his and Sonny's children running around in the next room over.

"Tommy, your Italian's getting better everyday. Saint Agatha'd be proud," Sonny teased as each member of the Corleone family (sans Michael) crossed themselves and began their meal. It was Saint Agatha's feast day. Agatha was the patron saint of Sicily; the day of her death celebrated far and wide among Sicilians every year. And so, as a testament to the Corleones' Sicilian-ness, every year on the 20th of February, Tom and Sonny came over with their families and indulged in a feast that Carmela and Sofia slaved over all day. Michael had missed his train to the City. It felt quaint without him there. 

Tom offered him up a semi-reluctant smile. From beside him, Theresa patted his hand in silent support. "Thank you, Sonny. I've said that prayer a hundred times by now. Rolls off the tongue by this point."

Sonny scoffed as he shoveled puttanesca onto his plate, and right away, Tom wished he'd said nothing. "Does it make you feel more Italian? Knowing all the words to the Lord's prayer?"

"Santino..." Carmela warned from across the table. Vito eyed Sonny with indignance written all over his face. But Sonny, being Sonny, persisted.

"No, no, I just wanna know, Mama. I wanna know how Italian Tom feels now that he's got a Sicilian wife and kids. Does he think leading grace makes him more Italian?" He condescended.

Tom let out an embittered sigh, taking a long sip of his wine and offering his brother a quick shake of the head. "No, Sonny, saying grace in Italian doesn't make me feel more Italian. I'm not a Sicilian and I know I'm not, but I was raised by Italians and so I know the Lord's prayer in Italian. Now could we just drop it, please?"

Sonny stared at his adoptive brother as he fumbled about with a fork, the sound of silverware clinking making up the room at an otherwise silent table. "I just wanna know if you think you know what it is to be a Sicilian just cuz you're always around 'em. It ain't the same thing as being a born and bred Sicilian. You know what they say. Blood is thicker than water."

Before anyone could say anything, Sofia cleared her throat to pipe up, and Tom could see the dread on Vito's face. A fight was about to break out. 

"That isn't the full expression, Sonny," she said simply, taking a tiny sip of wine with an assuming stare.

"What do you mean, Sof? Look, I don't want an argument here, I just--"

"Oh, bullshit, you don't want an argument, Sonny--"

"Language, young lady," Vito sighed, rubbing at his temple nervously. 

"Sorry, Papa. Let's see..." Sofia paused, considering her choice of words with a quiet hum. "Hogwash, you don't want an argument, Sonny," she corrected calmly. Tom and Fredo both had to fight to conceal their snickering. "Anyway, the full expression is, 'the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb'. It's something German soldiers used as a saying of comradery. It means that the blood we shed together in battles and the pain we have in times of hardship brings us closer together than birthright. Tom's your brother, Sonny. He was raised by Italians, he grew up with Italians... he went to school with Italians, he's married to an Italian, he has Italian children, and he works with Italians. And sure, his mother was Irish, but he doesn't act like a Mick and he knows all about our culture, and frankly, I think you're the only one in this room who'd be enough of a son of a bitch to--"

"Sofia," Vito sighed. "Language. Or you're excused from the table."

"Sorry, Papa... enough of a gosh darned, stinky meany-head to point out that Tom's not a Sicilian. We know he's not a Sicilian, Sonny, and he knows that, so why don't you just shut up and eat the dinner we spent all day making for you?"

Sonny was silent for only a moment. His heart rate was beginning to increase and his blood was beginning to boil, and he was doing everything he could to keep it together. Sandra placed a hand on his knee from beneath the table, pursing her lips with an annoyed sigh. "Look, Sofia, it's Saint Agatha's Day and I just wanted to make a point. That no matter what, we're Sicilians and our blood runs deep, it's pure Sicilian, and Tom ain't ever gonna be a Sicilian. His people didn't overcome what we have and I just don't want him to get any big ideas. You need to stop butting your head into every little argument, kid. It's time you learned to let things go. I ain't trying to start trouble here, alright?"

Sofia stared at him, eyes narrowed in mild disgust. She turned to their father, who she could tell wanted this discussion to be over and done with more than anyone. "Papa, if I cuss at Sonny by accident in my response to that, is the only penalty having to go up to my room?"

Vito looked to her with an urging stare. "Sofia, please don't curse in front of the children. And please just drop this, no good is going to come of this... conversation," he pleaded with her, reaching for his glass of wine.

"I will do my best not to curse in front of the kids, but Papa, I'm not going to be ruthless here. I'm only defending my brother. Now. First of all, Sonny, I hate to break it to you, but Sicilians are mutts. Our culture and our language is a bizarre hybrid of Greek, Italian, Spaniard, Arabian, and just a touch of Austrian elements. We are not pure. No one at this table is pure anything. That isn't how race works, there's no such thing as being pure blooded anything, and thinking that you're somehow superior to Tom because our ancestors got conquered and reconquered a little over a dozen times is honestly hilarious. Secondly, if you truly believe that you're not trying to start an argument here, then you're the least self-aware person I've ever met in my entire life. Though admittedly, I haven't lived as many Sicilian years as you have. You pointed out the fact that you don't see Tom as a real brother in the middle of a dinner for no conceivable reason, and then, instead of apologizing for it when you realized you'd hurt his feelings, you continued your incessant vitrol and refused to do the one thing that Tom will always do much, much better than you: shut the fuck up and--"

"Sofia, go to your room," Vito demanded, eyes on his plate. Tom knew he was trying not to let on that he was smiling, and he knew that Sofia knew it too.

Without skipping a beat, his youngest pushed back her chair, leaned over to kiss her father's cheek, and reached to the center of the table for a cannoli. She shoved its crisp exterior into her mouth and took a bite, continuing her mini tirade as she turned to go. "No problem, Papa. I've gotta go write my weekly fan letter to Roosevelt, anyway. I'm going to be sure to tell Franklin all about this travesty and blemish on the American dream in my letter on this holiest of days. Goodnight, everybody! If you enjoyed tonight's performance, I also do weddings and bar mitzvahs. Tips accepted." Once again, she turned towards a bumbling Santino, who was biting back his anger with everything he had. She gave him a mocking tsk, shaking her head with a deep sigh. "Sonny, since you're a pure blooded Sicilian and all, I will only accept my payments in lira and/or trophies of fauna native to the island of Sicily. I've always wanted to hang a really big stuffed fish in my room."

And with that, she took another bite of her cannoli and turned on her heels to go. _"Lunga vita alla Sicilia!"_

As soon as she was gone, Tom couldn't help but let out an audible laugh, and he was quickly joined by both Fredo and Theresa amid Sonny's encensed scowling.

___________________________

_”When you see a rattlesnake poised to strike, you do not wait until he has struck to crush him."_

-Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 1941

__________________________

**May 1944**

Sofia could not move. Her chest felt as though it was on fire. She could not remember breathing ever being quite this difficult. 

Over and over and over again, her eyes scanned the page. She dug her fingertips into the pulp paper, her nails grazing over Luke's name as she tried to discern whether or not this was reality or a horrific dream.

"Mama..." Sofia murmered, her voice winded. Her pupils were burning. She'd forgotten to blink for half a minute. "Mama, where's Papa?" 

"He's in his study with a guest, topalina. Drink your coffee, it's getting cold and I've got to save what's left in the pot for Santino," Carmela responded unwittingly. 

She did not respond. The young woman scooted her chair outwards from underneath the kitchen table with a deafening screech, morning paper in hand, and stormed out of the room towards the den. She was absolutely breathless. Her body felt like an oxygen-filled balloon: floating and slowly disintegrating towards its rightful place on the ground.

He'd done it. He'd done it. 

She pushed open the door, where her father was seated at his desk across from a man she recognized as a Jewish lawyer her father had worked with in the past-- Mr. Lipplemann or Lewinsky or something of the sort. They were laughing about something, which filled her with rage all the more. 

"What did you do?" She demanded, her voice cracking at the end of her sentence. She slammed the paper on the large oak desk before him, her eyes filled with rage. "What did you do to him? What did you do to him, Papa?"

Vito looked to her in surprise, eyes darting to his colleague semi-frantically. "Sofia... Sofia, now is not a good time. I... know you're upset, but we can talk about this in just a minute." He cleared his throat, nodding towards the well-dressed man across from him, who was eyeing Sofia with slight fear in his eyes. _"Non circa a omu che non è paisan,"_ he urged her. Not around a man who isn't paisan. 

She narrowed her eyes, tugging at her hair ribbon. She could feel hot tears of anger flooding her ducts. "_L'hai ammazare!_" Sofia shot back. _You killed him!_

Vito scanned her trembling figure, pity in his expression. His response was simple. Stony faced. Cryptic. _"Ti ha struprare, piccola. Eppi pagari per issu piccatu."_ And with that, he leaned back in his seat and softened his gaze. He did not even bother to glance at his bewildered guest. _He raped you, little one. He had to pay for his sin._

Sofia could feel her knees buckling. She'd killed him. She'd caused the death of her dearest friend. Father of her child. She'd killed him. He was dead. Luke was dead. Lucas Trentini was dead, and so were all of her dreams. Tears streamed down her eyes. Her Sicilian was not coming to her as quickly as it normally did. "_Nun... nun l'iddu fatto! Nun l'iddu fatto, Papa, sugnu sì 'ncita cu suo figlio! Nun l'iddu fatto! Nun l'iddu fatto!"_ Her breath was so winded that she felt as though she were choking. _No... no he did not! No he did not, Papa, I'm pregnant with his child! No he did not! No he did not!_

Vito stared at her, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was beyond concerned. He turned to the unwitting lawyer apologetically. "If you will excuse me, Mr. Lipplemann, my daughter has just learned that her friend is dead and she is very upset. I'm going to speak to her outside for just a moment."

"Of course," Lipplemann said simply, relieved to finally have an answer of some sort. 

And without responding, Don Corleone stood from his seat and stepped around the desk to a near hysterical Sofia. He put an arm around her and led her to the door and towards the parlor. He motioned for her to sit down.

His youngest practically collapsed onto the sofa beneath her, burying her grief stricken face into her tremor-filled hands. "What am I going to do now? What am I going to do now, Papa?" Sofia asked him desperately, searching for answers through a concerningly monotone voice.

Vito was silent for a moment, placing a hesitant arm around her shoulders and grazing his fingers over the fabric of her blouse. "_Tu aiuterò aumintàri vostru figlio. Vostru matri e iò,"_ he whispered gently. _I will help you raise your child. Your mother and I._ "You will be fine. I promise that you both will be fine. You do not need to hurt yourself by swearing vengeance on the _diavolo_ anymore, _tesora_. I am your father, it's my job to protect you, and I—"

"His f-father... his father was so proud of him. He was the oldest. The oldest, and he liked me a lot. He asked me to start... calling him Angelo. You would like him a lot, you would like Angelo. I should... call him... I should tell him... that Luke was helping me."

Vito pulled her closer to him, pecking the top of her head. She was entering a state of shock. The fact that she had so much love for the man he believed had destroyed her pained him all the more. "_Piccola_... his father will be alright. He is an Italian man, he would have done the same for his daughter. I'm sure that he's in pain, and that his wife is in pain, but they raised their son to..." He lowered his voice once again, for her sake and for their company's sake. "To be _strupratore_, the work of the devil, and... and that is also a sin. One they are paying for."

Sofia clung to her father's shirt, tapping her foot with a desperate rigor. She felt as though she were floating on a cloud. As though everything he was saying to her was nonsense, and everything that had ever happened to her had led up to this. A standstill. Pain. Horrible, horrible pain. Failure. Heartbreak. _Murder._ "You... you don't... understand what you've done to me, Papa. I... I'm going to... I'm going to have to change everything, he was going to help me... he... was going to help me... You... you ruined my plan, Papa, you've ruined it, my whole plan is destroyed now. My baby... my baby and I, we're... destroyed... And... Luke is dead... and... it's my fault, it's my fault he's dead..." All of her words were muddled. She was in a haze. 

Vito gripped both her arms and helped her to her feet, leaning her withered body against his own. "You are not destroyed, Sofia. He did not destroy you. I did not destroy you, your child's life is not destroyed... You need sleep. You need to rest. You've had a terrible shock, and I am sorry, Sofia. I am sorry, but we have done what had to be done for you and your child's safety."

_____________________

_The Evening Star; October 13th, 1948_

**Birth Announcements**

_Mister and Missus Jacob Schatzberg of New York City announce the birth of their daughter, Angela Leah. She was born October 12th at Lenox Hill Hospital. She weighed 6 pounds, 11 ounces and was 20 inches long. Her paternal grandparents are Arnold and Leah Schatzberg of New York City. Maternal grandparents are Carmela and Vito Corleone of Long Island._

______________________

**December 1945**

Sofia lay across the leather couch, staring at the plain light fixture that illuminated both her and the doctor beside her. She was desperately craving a cigarette, and was currently cursing herself for forgetting her case of them at home. The young mother wanted a glass of wine, too, but that couldn't have been helped here.

"Dr. Katzman's your name, then?" Sofia began, eyes perusing the ceiling. "I knew a Katzman. In high school, I mean. His name was Lenny. His father owned a bike shop."

He was already scrawling out notes, and that made her nervous. What could she have possibly said that was worth writing down?

"I know several Leonards, but none of them are name Katzman. Did you go to school in the city?" He asked, crossing his legs and sitting up a little straighter in his seat. Sofia had given him several once overs before deciding that she trusted him enough to lay down on the couch. She hadn't let Tom leave the room until the panicked feeling in her chest had subsided. Part of her, the irrational part of her that she couldn't seem to drink away, feared he was going to kill her; or maybe sell her out to someone else who wanted to kill her.

"I didn't, no. We've lived in Long Beach for as long as I can remember," she responded after a moment of silence. "I went to a Catholic school for the first part of junior high, but I begged my father to let me transfer to public school because I hated it so much. And then I went to Manhasset. It was a pretty good school." 

He sniffled. She hated to admit to herself how much the sound startled her. Every unexpected noise made in a place outside the sun porch at home seemed to startle her. "Why did you hate Catholic school?" The psychiatrist asked innocently.

Sofia scoffed. "Unless you like being hit on the knuckles with a ruler by an estrogen deficient nun when you outgrow your ugly plaid skirt, you wouldn't like Catholic school."

Dr. Katzman let out a little snicker at that, which put her at ease, if only a little. "Miss Corleone, I'll be very frank with you—"

"You can call me Sofia."

"Sofia, then. Why do you think you're here today?"

She inhaled deeply, squeezing her eyes shut. "My father thinks I'm what you doctors call 'neurotic'. He and my brothers suggested it. More like insisted on it. And maybe I am neurotic. I'm definitely not normal anymore."

She could hear the sound of his pen dancing across his notepad. God, she hated being put under a microscope like this. "Why do you think your father believes you to be neurotic?"

"You're on his payroll, aren't you?" She shot back, fiddling with a strand of her hair.

He stopped writing for a moment, most likely in surprise. There was a silence between them. She found that it began to eat away at her after only a moment or so. "Sofia, I'll again be frank with you. We don't need to focus on why you're seeing me in particular, or why your father chose to send you to me. That won't aid in your recovery. I am not here because I owe your father anything. I'm here as your doctor, who wants to see you thrive again after a grave amount of trauma."

She wanted to yell at him in response to that. That was her knee jerk reaction. Thrive. She wasn't going to thrive again. Not for a long time. Not in this world. She was a single mother with a toddler whose father had been shot by her own father's men. A former prostitute who had to read the Bible obsessively to maintain her sanity. She was crazy and she knew it. Thrive.

"I don't think you can make me thrive no matter how long I lay in this leather thing, doc," she replied, sounding much more jaded than was intended. "But I'll answer your questions. I'll answer them for my son's sake. My father thinks I'm neurotic because... because I drink a lot, I think that's a big part of it, and because... I think God's punishing my baby and me, so I lead my life now fearing... that."

The pen stopped making its scratching noise again. She was seconds away from asking him if he could ditch the writing altogether, but she didn't want him to say no to her and so she kept quiet. 

"Why do you believe that God is punishing you? Let's start with the what, Sofia. What have you done that is worthy of punishment by God?" 

She inhaled once again, shifting around in place. Fuck. The fixture above her now felt like a spotlight, and briefly, she thought of her stint as Ophelia. It was insane to her how much she related to her a little over a year and a half after she'd portrayed her.

"I... I've... I became a prostitute. I'll be frank with you, too, Dr. Katzman. I... became a prostitute because I was forced to. Because if I didn't, my son would have been killed. I got out of it after a lot of planning, and a lot of torture. And... and I killed... or at least, I caused the death of somebody. Two people, actually. One of them... one of them was my son's father. Luke. I... I made a mistake, an idiotic mistake, and my father had him killed because of it. And... and the other was a woman. I saw... her die, actually. She was my friend. She was gonna help me, but they had her killed. They shot her right in front of me."

There was another long pause. No more writing. She supposed he'd probably be able to remember all of that. "Who... is they? Who shot her?"

"Tattaglia's men," she answered simply. "Phillip Tattaglia, maybe you've heard of him? Bruno is his son. A friend of my deceased husband's." Who raped me, and I married him anyway as part of a ridiculous plan, but we can get to that later. "And Bruno... helped Tony— that was my husband— ruin my life. He really did. He took everything from me, quite literally." 

There was again silence on Katzman's end. "Who... did he have killed? This friend? What was her name?"

"Her name?" Sofia repeated, still toying with her hair. "Her name was Gia Cafaro." 

________________________

_"...Bieltate appare in saggia donna pui,  
_   
_che piace a gli occhi sì, che dentro al core  
_   
_nasce un disio de la cosa piacente;  
_   
_e tanto dura talora in costui,  
_   
_che fa svegliar lo spirito d’Amore.  
_   
_E simil fàce in donna omo Valente.”  
_

-“Amore e ‘l cor gentil“ di Dante Alghieri

_ “...Then beauty in a virtuous woman’s face_  
  
_makes the eyes yearn, and strikes the heart,  
_   
_so that the eyes’ desire is reborn again,  
_   
_and often, rooting there with a longing, stays,  
_   
_Until love, at last, out of its dreaming starts._  
  
_A woman is moved likewise by a virtuous man._  


-"Love and the Gentle Heart” by Dante Alghieri

_______________________

**December 1958**

"You know she's right, Mikey. I'm ready if you're ready," Sonny insisted from his preferred chair in the corner of the study.

Michael sat upright in his chair, a cigarette in his hands as he studied his sister's calm and cool expression. 

"It has to be perfect. If you sound like you aren't fluent, like you aren't a Cuban for half a second then we won't be able to—"

_"Te preocupas demasiado, Michael. Yo conozco cómo hablar español. Déjame preocuparme por sonar fluido, ¿sí?"_ She cut him off in perfect Spanish. Every bit of it sounded natural. The way the words danced off her tongue was impressive to say the very least. 

Sonny let out a little snicker, sitting back in his seat and crossing his legs with a pleased sigh. "Dial the number, Mike. Let's get this show on the road."

Michael offered his sister an assured smile, though she could tell through his stone cold demeanor that he was nervous. But as he dialed information and waited for his connection, Sofia knew that at the very least he was convinced. Convinced that she was right, and this was the best way out. He pursed his lips with a lit cigarette, ready to conduct a rather unorthodox order of business. 

And finally, after listening to the dial tone for a moment or two, he handed the receiver off to her and prepared to listen intently, the way he always did. "_¿Hola? ¿Estás Sonia? Sí... sí, me llamo María Álvarez. Necesito hablar con Hyman Roth,"_ she chirped effortlessly. The year she spent in Spain and the two months in Cuba on her honeymoon were bleeding through her voice. She sounded native, as far as Sonny and Michael could tell. _Hello? Is this Sonia? Yes... yes, my name is Maria Alvarez. I need to talk to Hyman Roth._

There was a long pause on the other line, which made Michael nervous. He wished he could understand what she was saying, but it was all gibberish to him. _"¿Te he llamado en un mal momento? Disculpe, estoy muy molesto con Hyman. Se suponía que me llamaría hace horas,_" Sofia finally replied to the woman on the other line. She was smiling confidently, which Michael took as a good sign. _Have I called at a bad time? I'm sorry, I'm just very upset with Hyman. He was supposed to call me hours ago._

_"¡Recibí tu número de teléfono de Johnny Ola, señora! ¿No eres su esposa?"_ She began cradling the phone between the crook of her neck and her shoulder, reaching for Michael's cigarette case and lighting one of the fags up with a smile. She was calm, cool, and collected. It made half of his fears disappear already. _I got your number from Johnny Ola, ma'am! Aren't you his wife?_

She let out a mock gasp of disbelief a moment later. _"Ay, dios mío! ¿No eres su esposa? ¿Tienes sexo con él, entonces? Solo he tenido relaciones sexuales con él una vez, pero me interesa el baro, señora. ¿Eres tú?"_ As she blew out a cloud of smoke, she winked at Michael. He managed a weak smile. _Oh, my god! You aren't his wife? Do you have sex with him, then? I've only had sex with him once, but I'm all about the money, ma'am._

_"¿Quién soy? María Álvarez, tonta! Tenemos sexo con el mismo yuma. ¿Quieres saber un secreto, Sonia? Lo finjo cuando lo follo. ¿Sabías que se está muriendo? Probablemente no te mataría si robaras un poco baro de su billetera la próxima vez. Los hombres moribundos son más generosos. Pareces inteligente. Toma tu baro y vete, mamica. Adiós._" And with that, she abruptly hung up the phone and took another drag of the cigarette, flicking her ash into the tray beside her and staring at her brother eagerly. _Who am I? Maria Alvarez, silly! We have sex with the same white man. Do you want to know a secret, Sonia? I fake it when I fuck him. Did you know he's dying? He probably wouldn't kill you if you took money out of his wallet next time. Dying men are more generous. You seem smart. Take your money and leave, little mama. Goodbye._

"Did she sound scared?" Sonny asked from directly behind his little sister, placing his hands on her shoulders fondly. 

"Yes... I'm almost afraid I took it too far. I told him I faked it when Roth fucks me, and then I implied that she stole from him," she relayed, the smoke that filled her lungs soothing her from the little high the call had provided her.

"Well, if she's fucking Hyman Roth, I'm sure she knows your struggle, Fia," Michael quipped, taking a drag from his cigarette. Sonny and Sofia looked to him in surprise and busted out laughing. Michael rarely made a dirty joke, and so when he did, they were about a hundred times funnier than they should have been.

Rubbing at his temple with his fingers, Sonny looked to his little sister with a gentle smile. "Pop'd be real proud of you, Sof."

Her eyes brightened at that, fingers gliding over the wooden surface of the desk that had once belonged to their father. "Thank you, Sonny... God, I miss him."


	13. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

_"Lord, You invite all who are burdened to come to you. Allow Your healing Hand to heal me. Touch my soul with Your compassion for others; touch my heart with Your courage and infinite Love for all; touch my mind with Your Wisdom, and may my mouth always proclaim Your praise. Teach me to reach out to You in all my needs, and help me to lead others to You by my example. Most loving Heart of Jesus, bring me health in body and spirit that I may serve You with all my strength. Touch gently this life which you have created, now and forever._

_Amen."_

**-Catholic prayer for healing of the soul**


	14. You think I’d make my sister a widow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So sorry for how long this update has taken to come to you. I hope everyone had a very happy holiday season. Please check out my other stories, one of which is a Marlon Brando fic (which is only one chapter long thus far, but chapter two is coming very soon), and one of which is a Kennedy fic. More twists in this one to come! My new year’s resolution is to update more frequently. Also know that all of these are up on Wattpad, and I tend to update chapters a day later on here! 
> 
> Thank you much,  
Jackie
> 
> Content warning: sexual assault and a brief description of suicidal ideation.

**May 1944**

"What makes you say that it was Trentini, son?" Vito murmured as he poured he and his eldest child a heaping glass of Amaretto. As soon as he'd shut the door to Sofia's room behind him, Santino had greeted him with those three simple, jarring words: It was Trentini. And the horrible gnawing sensation that he'd felt in his chest when he'd said it had brought him even more pain than he already felt. He had shushed him and then led him down the stairs back to the study-- Vito would not risk his daughter waking up to his son's yelling about her assault.

"Pop... Sofia is... she's a... a character, and she's very..." Sonny began, and Vito could tell that he was biting back tears. There was no judgement on his behalf. He'd only just finished wiping away his own tears, and he knew that more would come tonight before he went to sleep.

"Eccentric would be the word, I think." And with that, he took a sip of his drink and pursed his lips at the taste of the sickly sweet liquor.

"_Eccentric_, right... and she... when she's angry, she gets these ideas in her head, and... and she asked me, Pop, she asked me to help her run away with him," he explained cautiously.

"Why on earth would Sofia want to abandon her family and marry her... marry her rapist, Santino?" That was the first time, the Don realized, that he'd said the word out loud. And the word itself seemed to make his mouth go dry, as though breathing it aloud had taken all the life out of his lips.

"Because she... she's concocted some crazy plan and she wants to get her revenge on him. You know her, Pop. You know her. Think about what she said. She didn't say she wanted to marry Trentini 'cuz she loved him. She said, 'to be happy, I need to marry him'. And I came into her room tonight after the scene in the sitting room, and she told me... she told me that you'd... I know it's him, Papa, because she said... point blank, she said, 'Sonny, he'll kill him. Sonny, he'd kill him if he found out we was still seeing each other.' And we both know that you'd never... have a man killed like that, you would only disown her if she went against you. I know, I just know that... that she thought you were going to figure out whatever crazy idea she'd come up with, that you were going to catch on and try and stop her before it was too late. She wants to ruin the sick son of a bitch's life herself, and that's what she told you, Pop, I heard her."

Vito took a drawn out sip of his drink, the burn it left in the back of his throat doubling as lighter fluid which ignited his shell shocked thought process.

'_Can you tell me? Will you?'_

_'No, no, no, please don't, you'll kill him, you'll kill him, and I want to be the one who makes him suffer, not you, not you, Papa, I have a plan.'_

That is what his daughter had said to him.

_'Sonny, he'll kill him!'_

Sofia knew Vito's morals very, very well. She knew what he viewed as justice and what he did not. He may have been a murderer, but he was not a cold hearted one. And he would never kill a boy for running off with his daughter; only disavow her, however painful that may have been.

Rape, however? Vito would gladly be the one to shoot the fucker point blank himself.

He wanted blood. He wanted vengeance. He wanted to do what he had failed to do: protect his baby, and his baby's child.

After several moments of silence, the Don finally spoke up. "I... I think you may be right, _figlio_, but there is no way for me to be sure. There is no way for us to be sure until we ask Sofia, and she may lie to us. She is very, very headstrong, and she thinks she can handle this by herself, and she is wrong, and I am afraid we won't be able to find the real culprit so long as she has it in her head that she doesn't need her family's help."

Sonny squirmed in his seat slightly, tightlipped and bursting with a hundred different emotions. "It's the Northern motherfucker. I know it is. Just before you came in, she told me something.”

**_"_**She told you what?" Vito urged him.

"She told me that Michael knew she was pregnant, and that he was willing to help her buy a plane ticket for her to California... she wants to run off with him to California... but not Luke. He wouldn't pay for Luke's ticket," he explained, crossing his leg over his knee.

"What does that prove?"

"Pop, Michael ain't old fashioned. He's been dating that Baptist girl for a couple years now, he's an Ivy Leaguer, he ain't with the business. You and I both know he don't gotta problem with Northerners, and that he'd do anything for his sister. So why would he approve of her going off and leaving the family, but not with her Trento husband?"

Vito carefully considered this observation, and as he poured himself a second drink, he realized that his son's guesswork raised a very important question. "I see your point, patatino. We can try to call your brother--"

"Papa, d'you remember when Michael came up here for Easter last month and he and Sofia went onto the sun porch and talked forever?" Sonny interrupted.

"Yes, yes I do. Did you hear her say something to him?”

"I just remembered, Pop, I... Francie ran in there and I went in after her, and right before I walked in, I heard Michael say... I thought it was real odd, he said, 'I won't let you be around the man who did that to you, Fia. That's crazy. That's too much...' and then I walked in, and he shut right up, and they wouldn't tell me what the hell they were talkin' about, so I just grabbed my daughter and turned the other cheek. Pop... it was him. And Michael knows it was him. She's hysterical, she's pregnant, and she ain't thinkin' straight, and we have to whack that son of a bitch ourselves. I'll do it. I'll shoot the man who forced himself on my sister and got her pregnant."

Vito was silent for a very long moment. He sat back in his seat and reached for his pipe, which had been laid neatly atop his desk. The mafioso stuck it in his mouth, unlit, and bit down on the stem with a deep sigh.

"Santino, I will not kill a man without knowing for certain that he raped my daughter," he muttered, and Sonny opened his mouth to protest. "Let me finish. I think we need to ask Michael what he knows. Your sister tells him most things. We have to go about this rationally, or the consequences could be disastrous. Call Western Union. Have them overnight a telegram to your brother."

________________________

"_A' sto mund gh'è tre qualità de becch: becch cuntent, becch rabient, becch innucent."_

-Proverbio Lombardi

_"In the world, there are three types of cuckolds: the happy, the angry, and the unsuspecting."_

-Lombardi Proverb

** _____________________ **

**December 1944**

Sofia Corleone adjusted her white lace veil and kissed the small gold crucifix which adorned her neck. The young mother dipped her fingers into the benetiér at the sanctuary entrance and crossed herself before entering, her eyes planted on the stained glass featuring an ornate depiction of Christ at the forefront of the cathedral as she padded towards the confessional booth.

It was almost Christmas. Her first away from home, and she missed with all of her might her family. This year, she would attend midnight mass with her piece of shit husband instead of her beloved family, and there would be no carefully wrapped presents from her father, nor drunkenly singing Christmas carols with her cousins with a belly full of wine, nor panettone and sfogliatella and cannoli and a Christmas ham expertly prepared by her mother and aunts, nor telling her little cousins stories of la Befana (the magical old woman who brought Italian children gifts on Epiphany Eve). This year, all the Sicilian would be sucked out of Christmas, and she had a one month old baby to care for at home.

The confessional booths at Saint Patrick's cathedral, where she had attended a funeral mass for her deceased lover six months ago now, sat abidingly at the altar, and Sofia took a deep breath. She was nervous. Priests had always intimidated her. She intended to clear her head before she entered the booth, and had done so with a glass of wine before she'd taken the subway into Manhattan. But evidently, that had not been enough, for the strain within her stomach began to resurface as soon as she began stepping down the church aisle, her high heeled footsteps echoing ominously. She resolved that she would light a votive candle for the Virgin and say a quick Hail Mary with the addition of a dime offering before entering the booth. It was a Wednesday night, and her only company was an old Puerto Rican woman praying in the pews near the back.

And finally, Sofia edged towards the sidelines of the sanctuary and entered the booth, dutifully crossing herself as the priest slid open the tiny compartment on the other side of the latticed opening. Father Francis let out a small cough as he did the same.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," the woman began, resting her elbows atop the window opening's crevice. "It has been... six months since my last confession, and... well, I don't really know where to begin in listing out my sins."

"Good evening," he greeted her, staring to the side pensively. "Why don't you tell me what the worst of it is, then? What's been pressing you the most?"

Prior to this, Sofia's sin list had always been comparatively barren. Throughout her childhood, Mama always made her confess at least once a month, and she'd always found it terribly intimidating. She'd told this priest everything. He knew about all of her woes throughout the past eighteen years, from stealing money from her mother's purse to buy saltwater taffy, to playing poker with her brothers, to having sex with a mick. Priests were like a bottle of cheap perfume. If you weren't incredibly sparing in your spraying, you would walk out of the room smelling like a whore. Sofia wondered sometimes how many people Father Francis could have put in jail were it not for the Sacrament.

"I... well, I got pregnant. Out of wedlock. And... we came to you for pre-Cana about five months ago... before you married us, my husband and I did, and I guess I triple sinned. Because I lied to a priest, and I told you that I was pregnant with his baby. I wasn't pregnant with his baby. It's not Tony's. And then I told you that I loved him, which I don't at all, so that's another lie. And then a few days after the pre-Cana, I had sex with a man who wasn't my husband. Or the father of my baby, because the father of my baby was murdered by my father's caporegime. And the man I had sex with was a Jew. Does that count as double sinning? You know, having premarital sex with a man who isn't a Christian?"

The priest was silent for a long moment, clearing his throat before he began. "No, that only counts as one sin, child. Why... did you have sex with a man who wasn't your fiancé days before your wedding, Sofia?" He asked.

"That's a really good question, Father," she responded with a stony face, a hint of sarcasm stirred into her hoarse voice as she fiddled with her veil. "It's because I wanted to have one last hurrah with a man who actually knew what he was doing in the bedroom before I got married, because I didn't want to be an adulteress back then. And I hate my husband. Is hating your own husband a sin, Father?"

She could tell from the other side of the mesh screen that the priest was at a genuine loss for words, but he had to press on. "That depends on why you hate him. Why do you hate your husband?"

"Because he raped me," she replied, stone faced. "Before we got married. And that upset me a great deal, you know, as it would most women."

There was a very long pause. Sofia pulled apart her folded hands and began to fiddle nervously with her crucifix necklace, which her father had gifted her for Christmas last year. "I am very sorry that you were raped. May God heal you from the evil Satan has wrought upon you, and may you go in peace. Were your parents aware you were raped? Is that the real reason why your parents weren't present for the marriage ceremony?"

”No. My father didn't kick me out because I was raped. I wouldn't tell him who did it because I knew he would have him killed, and I wanted to get my justice myself. He and my brother had the man I was originally going to marry killed. The father of my baby. We were going to get even with Tony, ruin his life and make him pay for what he did. Luke Trentini and I. You probably remember him, he was the boy who was shot in the middle of the day a few months ago? And them murdering him made me very upset, as it would most people, so I didn't invite my family to the wedding."

"I... I see," he managed. "I remember Luke Trentini. He was a very kind boy, may God rest his soul. Sofia, why did you marry the man who raped you?"

**_"_**Because, Father," she breathed, sitting a little more upright and folding her hands together once more. "Luke and I's plan was ruined. We were going to murder Tony ourselves, you see. With the help of my older brother. Michael. I sinned again. I'm sorry. Maybe I should've opened with the murder plot. It was a brilliant plan, it really was. But the problem was that neither of them would let me near Tony. You know, because he raped me and all..." Sofia was relying on her sardonic humor and her flippancy to get through this thing. She couldn't stand the thought of having to recant all of this without throwing in her usual bizarrely casual, brash statements.

"They were going to do it for me, with my plan, so then I had to think of another one once my co-conspirator got shot. And so I resolved to have sex with Tony, tell him that the baby was his and that I was in love with him, and then marry him, and then humiliate him in front of all of his friends and family. He's already figured out it wasn't his, I'm pretty sure."

"Why... didn't you go through with the plan to kill him with your brother? Couldn't he have carried it out?" Father Francis asked, and this time, Sofia was sure he was asking out of curiosity rather than in the name of repentance.

"Well," she began, fumbling around with the chain of her necklace, "It was, um, going to be Luke who did the actual murdering. Michael just knew about the plan because he found out I'd been raped, and I didn't want him to tell my father, so I had to tell him what we planned to do. He just promised not to tell anyone. And after Luke was killed... I just... This is where I need... your advice and wisdom, Father."

"That's what I'm here for, young lady."

”I... I wanted so badly to get my justice on my own. Without a mafioso's help. I didn't want my father to kill the man who ruined my life, I wanted to give him what was coming to him myself. And then... I got pregnant, and that threw me for a loop, and it became more important than ever to me to have him dead, because I wanted him to be far away from my child. But then Luke died. He was... supposed to be my husband, and maybe my father would've let me marry him, even though he was a northerner, if he hadn't thought he was a rapist because of some stupid fucking..." She paused, covering her mouth and widening her eyes slightly in shame. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry, I swear a lot when I'm upset... which I guess is a sin--"

"That's quite alright. It happens more than you'd think. And given the circumstances, I'm sure God is understanding, too. Continue," he explained with a shake of the head.

"Maybe... he would've let me marry him if it weren't for a stupid miscommunication."

_________________________

_"'Cu avi na figghia nda fascia nun pò diri a nuddu bagascia."_

-Proverbio Siciliano

"_Those who have a little daughter cannot call another woman a whore."_

-Sicilian Proverb

__________________________

** _March 27, 1944_ **

_Dear Michael,_

_Hi, big brother. I hope you're doing alright. How did your midterm exams go?_

_I have bad news. I'll just cut to the chase, Mikey: I'm pregnant. A little over two months, and I don't know what in the fuck to do. I only have so long until Mama and Papa realize that I'm not just getting fat. I haven't told anyone yet except for Annette. I figured that it'd be easier for me to tell you over letter than it would face to face. I'll tell you everything you want to know as soon as you come home. Or you can waste a nickel to call me. Whatever floats your boat._

_I love you, Michael. I need your help._

_Cordiali Saluti,_

_Sofia_

____________________________

**April 1944**

It was nearing the end of the Spring semester at Harvard, and Michael was up to his knees in assignments. The last of it before final exams. He was exhausted. Easter had come and gone, and now the only break to look forward to was at the end of semester come May.

The frigid morning air chilled the collegiate to the bone. It was always freezing cold in the winter and early spring months, for the boiler in his dormitory was on the other side of the building. It seemed that his wool coat was always draped over his shoulders as he studied.

Michael was taking a final glance over the essay due first thing when he heard a swift knock at his door. That was odd. No one ever knocked on his door before 5 o'clock in the evening, when all classes had been let out and someone was throwing a last minute mixer. He stood from his wooden seat and opened his squeaky door— it could use a good oiling. It almost startled him to see a man in a Western Union uniform standing before him, holding out a stamped piece of paper that was clearly a telegram.

_Shit_.

Telegrams always meant bad news. Always. He'd gotten one when his grandmother had died, and one when Fredo had been hospitalized with pneumonia and nearly died. Good news could always wait to be delivered via a letter or his sporadic phone calls home.

"Telegram for Mr. Michael Corleone?" The high school aged boy said, adjusting his cap with a morning haze in his eyes.

"That's me. Thank you," he responded, pursing his lips in concern as he took the message.

The boy bade him his farewell, and Corleone left the door wide open as he gave the telegram a quick once over.

**Mr. Michael Corleone=**

**Grays Hall-Harvard Cambridge MA**

**CALL HOME ASAP THERE IS BIG TROUBLE THANKS=**

**SONNY.**

Immediately, Michael felt his stomach sink. What on earth could 'big trouble' mean? He thought back to the letter Sofia had sent him two weeks ago now, and the long phone call he'd subsequently bade her almost immediately. He was scared to death for his sister, and her insane plan he still couldn't believe that he'd agreed to. Could Sonny have found out? Did Pop know? His brother had said to call 'home', not Sonny's place. It was a family issue.

Michael tossed the telegram into the garbage pail by his door and made his way out of his room and down the stairs. Students weren't allowed to make long distance calls in the free dormitory phone that sat in the lobby. He'd have to brace the cold. The frigid Massachusetts air greeted his cheeks as soon as he exited the doors. There was only one payphone in all of the Harvard Yard, which seemed ridiculous for such a wealthy institution. And it was a good five minute walk; stationed just outside of Apley Court Hall. Michael reached into his breast pocket for his brand new cigarette case and stuck one in his mouth, biting down on the filter to retrieve a nickel from his pants pocket.

Corleone deposited his money and cleared his throat as he dialed information.

"Long distance," a woman's voice stated casually.

"Operator, I'm dialing Long Beach, New York. Mulberry Street, 359864. Calling from payphone 279830," he recited from memory, reaching into his pocket for his light and igniting it grimly.

"Yes, sir, and what was your name?"

"Michael Corleone."

"Thank you."

There was that god awful buzzing noise on the other line for a good two and a half minutes, and Michael tapped his foot on the asphalt beneath his shoes and smoked his cigarette as he awaited a voice on the other line.

There was finally a click, and the young man stood upright. "Michael," Vito Corleone asseverated. "I assume you got the telegram."

"Pop?" He replied, wishing suddenly that he were in a booth instead of out in the open. Whatever this was, it was definitely bad. He could tell just by his father's tone. "What happened? What's the matter?"

"What do you know about Luke Trentini, son? The boy your sister's been seeing?

Michael's breath halted. _Fuck_. He knew Sofia was pregnant. That was the only logical conclusion here. But if he wanted to save his sister's skin, he was going to have to play dumb. "Luke Trentini? He goes to our parish, doesn't he? Fia's mentioned him before."

"_Topalino_," Vito sighed solemnly, shifting in his seat. "Now is not the time to lie for your sister's sake. I appreciate your loyalty to her, but I know she's been seeing him. I need you to tell me what you know about their relationship. About how he treats her."

Michael inhaled deeply, scanning the dial on the phone before him. He'd been caught in a lie, and now he had to discern what he could say to his father that his sister wouldn't kill him for. "I... Papa, I don't know much about them, to tell you the truth. Only that she cares for him very much. I've never met him."

There was a long pause. He could feel his stomach churning on Sofia's behalf. He could only hope she was doing alright. "Did you know that your sister's pregnant?" He finally asked.

And Michael cringed, a puff of smoke exiting his nose as he considered his response. The game was just about over. "Yes. Yes I did. She told me over a letter about two weeks ago, and she promised me she would tell you... um, soon... when I telephoned home."

"Did you know that she was.... that your sister was raped?"

His eyes trailed to the ground, and he could feel an awful shiver overtaking his body. He was not sure if that was attributed to the tremendous gust of wind that blew through the Yard moments before, or his nerves. Probably both. And he knew that his sister had fucked up her own plan, and that she would blame him if he dug her hole any deeper. But if Papa was asking; if he knew... clearly something had gone awry. And his family needed his help.

"Yes, Papa. I did. And I didn't tell you because... because she told me that if I did, she would.... she'd kill herself, because you'd be taking away her justice. She told me months back in confidence, and I insisted that she tell you so that... measures could be taken to protect her, but she said, 'Michael, if you tell a soul what happened, I'll kill myself. I'll hang myself, I swear to god I will.' And she was so hysterical at that point that I believed her. She told me her boyfriend was going to kill the boy who did it, and then she showed me proof that he was dead. And... I... what happened? How did you find out, Pop?"

There was a very long silence on the other end. Michael could tell that his father had been rendered speechless. "She... she threatened to hang herself if you told me or your mother anything?"

"Yes. And I told her that that was a sick thing to say, and she told me... that um... that it was sick to expect her to sit back and let a bunch of people fix her life for her."

"_Oddio_..." He ululated. "She's lost her mind. You should have... told me, son, I can't believe that you would keep something like that from me."

"Papa, she... she also told me that if I told you, that she would... she would give you the wrong name," he finally spat out, tossing his cigarette to the ground.

"She told you she would _what?"_ He attempted to clarify.

"Give you the name of the wrong man so that... you would kill him instead, and she could still kill the man who did it herself."

______________________

_"No place indeed should murder sanctuarize;_

_Revenge should have no bounds."_

-King Claudius, Hamlet, Act IV, scene vii

_____________________

**November 1945**

"The better question to ask would be, 'what don't you know about the Turk, Sofia?' And the answer to it would be nothing. There is nothing that I don't know about his business," The youngest Corleone croaked, setting her suitcase onto her bed. She'd only been home five minutes, and already she'd been tearfully greeted by her mother and brothers. Carmela had taken baby Michael to sleep, and in a few moments, it would be time to go to the hospital to see Papa and deliver their information.

It was strange being back at home. Sofia felt like she'd never left in the first place, even though she'd been gone for what seemed like an eternity. Her photographs of Cary Grant and Judy Garland and Veronica Lake and Ava Gardner were still pinned to her wall, her bed was still neatly made, and the lock on her hope chest was still in place. It looked like it did every morning before she left for school, and it was surreal to be back now with a child who was nearing a year old and a little less than ten months of prostitution under her belt.

"Let's start from the beginning. I know Tattaglia put you up to all this, but how in the world did you know what Sollozzo was planning? How did you know to get dirt on him?"

Sofia quickly shrugged off his prodding, unfastening the clasps of her suitcase and sifting through her clothes until she retrieved a chiffon pink blouse. "Mikey, I'll tell you the whole story later. Right now, we need to get all of this to Papa. There is a Family war in our midst, and I know this because I'm as good a listener as I am a talker. That is all that you need to know right now. That, and everything that's inside of this." And with that, she unfolded the blouse, revealing a sealed manila envelope tucked inside, and handed it off to her brother.

Michael scanned the envelope, which was a good inch thick. It was beginning to fray; likely from being tossed around so much. There was a single word scrawled diagonally across the yellow: 'SPERANZA' . The Italian word for 'hope'. He flipped it around and unbent the bronze prongs, carefully removing the very large stack of papers from within.

He took one glance at the first place and felt his face contort into shock. "Jesus Christ... Sofia, how in the hell did you--"

"Never mind that now. Michael, it is a very, very long story. But I have them. And they go back years and years, and we can use all of this against him without even having to go to the police."

There were names of men in typewriter print all up and down every page. Very powerful men. Man after man after man. He began to flip through the pages. James Mead, the Senator from New York who was currently running for Governor. Walter Edge, the Governor of New Jersey. Other names, less recognizable ones, had titles scrawled next to them in blue ink:

_Harry Carman- Dean of Columbia University_

_Virgil Sollozzo- DIAVOLO_

_Robert McBride- Priest, Long Island_

_Benjamin Lawrence- NY State FBI agent_

_Alfred Wright- NYC real estate agent_

_John Schmidt- Stockbroker, upstate NY_

_Andrew Beyer- NY State Department of Transportation_

And beside every last male in the following column, there was a woman's name and a date. No surnames. Violet. Tina. Carol. Genevieve. Michael even saw Sofia's name written out a few times.

There was, unfortunately, the obvious problem. "Fia, this list doesn't prove anything. It's just a bunch of names on a paper, it doesn't—"

"Don't you think I already thought of that? You underestimate me, you know that? Pull out what's at the bottom. The other stacks."

And Michael did just that. He peered inside the envelope a second time and saw another set of papers, these a bit more crinkled and worn, and the collegiate pulled them out of the manila with a gentle hand. He marveled at what met his eyes.

Hotel receipts.

Dozens and dozens of hotel and motel receipts, each dated and detailed. And stamped with the name of a man. Men from the list.

"Check the log. They all line up," Sofia urged him.

"How in the hell did you—"

"Michael, the Corleone Family has a mole and so does the Tattaglia Family. And that's what I'll tell you for now. But we need to take these to Papa. Right now. He has newspaper reporters on the payroll, and we can use this. And it can and will prevent a war. I know many of these men, and I know them very well, and I know exactly how to use this against Philip Tattaglia. But you need to trust me."

He stared at her in awe and confusion, returning the contents of the envelope to their home. "Fia, get your coat. You and me and Tom are going to the hospital."

_________________________________

_"Прислушайся ко всем, протяни руку_ _друзьям, но только губами женщине."_

-Пословица русских евреев

_"Lend everyone your ears, give your friends a hand, but give your lips only to a woman."_

-Jewish Proverb, orig. Russia


End file.
